


Die Vergeltung

by rainer76



Category: A-Team (2010)
Genre: M/M, So many bad cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Face loses his memory, Hannibal and co. have to retrieve him from the enemy, avoid being shot by him, and convince Face that he doesn't work for the 'bad' guys.  Set in the very grey period between the end of the movie and the start of their new careers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2010 Big Bang challenge, from a prompt on the kink meme. Die Vergeltung was the name of the boat that was sunk in the film's finale, the literal translation is 'The Retaliation', and the boy's, Hannibal in particular, are very unsettled in this fic.

_Men as a whole judge more with their eyes than with their hands._

      - Machiavelli

 

Contrary to popular opinion, Templeton Peck doesn’t remind Hannibal of himself.  The kid isn’t some spectre of Christmas past hanging from his shoulder.  When he meets Face for the first time, the boy hasn’t finished growing yet, coltish lean and intangible as water.  He already has the nickname and it had nothing to do with his looks; it’s an abbreviation, a stopgap that Peck adopted without rancour.  Two-faced - or the lying, conniving, sack of shit, depending on whether you knew Lt. Rachel Laurens or not.  No.  If Face reminds him of anyone, then it’s Russell Morrison.  At the time, the thought didn’t trouble Hannibal; it made him pay attention, keep an eye on the kid, but now it makes his gut clench. Hannibal’s a soldier, through and through, and Face is that and something more: a killer with a _politician’s_ guile, smiling through the lies.  

He didn’t think it would hurt this much, not after Russ.  

There’s blood slipping through his fingers, and in this light Murdock’s eyes are the colour of beer, golden brown, clutching his leg tight.  

“Where the fuck did that come from?”

“A gun, it has a crazy little mechanism with a firing pin and a hammer, a metallic projectile that swoops through the air and puts holes in you.  Kind of like that.” Murdock grins, pressing down like a son of a bitch on the said 'hole' until Hannibal snarls, twists around on the floor.

He can’t sight anything from here.   

Face went into OT at seventeen, having bribed a senator into providing a letter of recommendation.  IET training lasted two years in the Rangers and he emerged at nineteen as a second lieuy. His service jacket was already thick by then, a bewildering array of formal complaints and outspoken compliments.  Psych evaluations that all revealed the same thing: highly intelligent with a deep-seated mistrust toward authority.  Face was raised by one government body and indoctrinated into another. Institutionalised isn’t a word that Hannibal sees in the kid, not with his devil-may-care attitude, except for all the ways in which it fits.  The army is the first home Face chose.

“Should this blood be so red?”

“Bright red is good.  Black-red’s bad.”

“So tell me, did you happen to annoy our good lieutenant today?  Call him a bad name?”  Murdock is searching his own pockets, discarding a dirty hanky and humming tunelessly.  He’s hip to hip with Hannibal, sprawled out flat; his baseball cap matches the leak that Hannibal’s so recently sprung.

“No, but I can think of a few choice words now.”  

The warehouse is gutted: skeletal framework and long shadows.  Face has the high ground, ghosting their perimeter.  There’s not enough cover to make the run from here to the exit.  Even so, Hannibal doesn’t leave his men behind, not even if they turn traitor to regain their commission.  As if he heard the thought, Murdock tilts his head.  “He hesitated, colonel.”  

 _Sosa_ , Hannibal thinks, and the rage is a maelstrom, so close to murder it’s a vibration running through his bones.  For the first time in his life Hannibal wants the ground to be steady, but that hasn’t held true since Germany.  “Did you get a line on his last position?”

Murdock shakes his head and takes his cap by the brim.   He waits for Hannibal’s nod before lifting upright, bare centimetres from the ground, cap held aloft.   Too high, Hannibal thinks, but he’s rolling left, out from under their meagre cover to search the low beams.   The shot is instantaneous.  Murdock drops with a curse and Hannibal pulls back in, the echo ricocheting like a six-gun salute.  There’s a Polaroid picture in his mind of a silhouette crouched in the left hand corner.  

Murdock laughs under his breath, eyes gleeful as he taps Hannibal’s wound, careless of the pain.  “Faceman’s counting coup.”  

There’s a bull’s-eye in the centre of his hat, a perfect round hole with the threads standing on end as if electrified. Hannibal doesn’t care about insanity, dishonourable discharges, or troublesome officers.  He chose his team based on their tactical competence and together or apart, they’re fucking _deadly._  Face doesn’t miss.  The leg wound took out flesh and a chunk of muscle, but it bypassed bone and the major artery.  It’s designed to slow him down, keep him still, and Hannibal _hates_ being predictable.

***

Templeton drops into his new position noiselessly, fingers light against the trigger guard.  The light ripples blue-green in the warehouse, as if filtered through water.  He settles, marking time until Decker arrives.  He can hear the scream of approaching sirens in the distance.

Smith and Murdock have taken shelter behind a wooden pallet, as good as hiding behind a paper towel, but Templeton has no urge to kill them yet.  His heart keeps tripping in his ribcage, familiarity strangling for a foothold.  He’s seen Hannibal Smith’s photograph a thousand times since the hospital, has the features memorised, but seeing him in the flesh was discordant; as jarring as a sucker-punch.  Templeton traces the bloodstain in the centre of the floor, feels the muscles in his own belly contract.   Decker’s ETA is a little more than two minutes, and Peck clears his mind, lets instinct settle his frame.  

A grey and white GMC van smashing through the wall wasn’t part of his original plan, nor was seeing his quarry streak inside the open door like Olympic contenders.  

Templeton breathes out, sights along the barrel of the M4A01 and fires twice, so quickly the report sounds as one.  The first shot clips the gas tank but doesn’t ignite; the second catches the left-rear tyre, and then the van is gone, screaming through the main entry.   He drops the sniper rifle and takes the stairs four at a time, counting cadence as he runs.  

Templeton reaches the top of the building in time to see the van turn on a pinwheel, tearing back in the same direction with two MP vehicles in hot pursuit.  Peck hurdles the A/C unit and sprints toward the northwest corner, where a modified rifle is primed. He reaches it just as the van passes below his position, less than forty yards away.  The weapon is unwieldy, but he only needs it to tag them once.  The projectile lands square inside the van’s spoiler-guard, wedged deep amongst the mottled grey.  

“Gotcha.”  

Bemused, he watches silently as the driver – and it can only be Baracus – outperforms two high-powered vehicles with a twenty-year-old rust-bucket and one flat tyre.  In the middle distance, a police car overturns amidst a plume of dust, and the van vanishes behind a line of red-brick mortar warehouses.  

Templeton scans the sky overhead, the clouds ominously dark, and doesn’t move from the roof until the first drops of rain pepper his face.

***

Murdock pulls the material away from Hannibal’s leg, hands steady as he mutters, “It’s a through and through.  This is nothing but a love tap, colonel. I can stitch you up with a pretty bird if you want, something to match Bosco’s lightning bolt?”

B.A. looks between them, stunned. “ _Face_ was the shooter?”

Hannibal grunts, watching Murdock as he pours alcohol over the wound. The van is a replica of the one Bosco lost in Mexico. The interior is leather-fitted but the outside is as spotted as a leper: ugly grey and white patches combined with a ruined rim wheel.   The engine, however, is a thing of beauty; a low growl of menace in the bolthole they’ve found.  B.A., apparently, hasn’t had any trouble filling his spare time. 

Hannibal swallows two pills as Murdock settles in with the needle and thread.  “He has the motivation: Face gave the government both Lynch _and_ the plates, he could’ve made a deal after we split.  He turns us in and regains his career.”  He sounds faded to his own ears, worn down.  “Face fell in love with Sosa three years ago, that hasn’t changed; going home to her every night is a strong incentive - it makes sense at least.”

The silence in the van is deafening.  Hannibal looks up to find Murdock staring at him.  “You honestly think that?”

“Yeah.”

“Stitch your own damn wound.” Murdock grabs his iPhone and busts open the door.  He’s out and gone before Hannibal can call him back in.  

 

B.A. watches him, his face inscrutable.  

“What?”

“This is bullshit, and if you weren’t so cut up you’d know it.”

Hannibal stiffens, his face flattening with anger. “B.A…”

“No, you need to listen.  It’s like me and being airborne, see, one day you’re flying and the next you’re tumbling from the sky; you don’t expect someone to haul you back in, but it doesn’t matter, see, ‘cos all you’re left with is the fear it’s going to happen again.” B.A. taps Hannibal in the centre of the chest, his voice a low rumble.  “That’s _me_ , and right now that’s you, too.  Man, if I heard you talking this shit about me, I’d punch you through the nearest drywall.  Face is no Russell Morrison.”

Six months of incarceration only to end up as wanted men, and four felons were easier to find than one; letting his team go their separate ways was good, tactical reasoning - except it nearly tore Hannibal apart. Six months in prison, two weeks living in the thick of it, and then poof, his team vanished.  Hannibal gave the order to scatter, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself any longer, spinning like a fifth wheel.  Unlike Face, Hannibal’s indifferent to women, liaisons with the opposite sex few and far between – the only solace he required were the calluses on his thumb and knowing that there’s a purpose, a plan to be executed.  “Certain?  Because my bullet wound says otherwise.”

B.A. folds his arms. “Face is not rich, he doesn’t come from West Point, and he has no family.  We’re it, Hannibal, and he wouldn’t betray us.   You _know_ this, man, except you can’t see past the chopper hitting the ground.” 

He can remember Germany; so badly rattled that it was the kid who stepped up the game – who delivered Lynch and the plates on a silver platter.  It was Face who cleared their names of the original charge and it was Face who stood on the pier, his voice lost, searching for reassurance as he asked Hannibal if he could ever do to them what Morrison did.  Saying he’d rather face a firing squad was the only comfort Hannibal could afford.  

“Alright.”  He turns the cigar in his hand, feels his leg pulse in time with his heartbeat, and mutters again, “Alright…” There’s a hole he can’t seem to fill, the longer he thinks about his team’s predicament, the larger it grows.

B.A. scowls.  “Besides, it’s the Faceman who double-checks my seatbelt when we’re airborne.  I’m tough, you know, but I can’t let any ol’ fool know my hands shake too badly to buckle in.”

Back in the day, Hannibal had had a reputation for straightening out problem cases.  They’d send him the screw-ups, the convicts, or the hard headed dicks that couldn’t follow orders, and he’d churn out officers the Army could depend upon.  A rotation of men who taxed what little patience he possessed.  Some turned out okay, some were dead within a year, and others turned into damn fine officers, but in every single case Hannibal passed them on.  Face was the first junior officer he kept.  Right up until B.A. and Murdock joined his command, Face would buck his orders until Hannibal wanted to shake the kid, yell at him to quit going alone and just _listen_.  Trying to hold onto Face in those first eight years was like trying to catch an eel with his teeth, both hands tethered behind his back; the last eight was pure magic, everything click-click-clicking into place.  If Face screwed them over, then Hannibal wants to look his lieutenant in the eye.  But if B.A.’s correct, if someone bludgeoned the trust issues Hannibal’s taken _fifteen years to address,_ then he might just have to kill someone.

B.A. crouches beside him and tugs on the medical thread experimentally. “Murdock’s better at this shit,” he muses then picks up where the captain left off.

They find Murdock on a hillock overlooking the warehouse, his cap pulled sideways and snapping pictures with his iPhone. They’re still uncomfortably close to the scene, but the number of MPs has thinned in the last hour.  He passes the device over wordlessly and Hannibal scrolls through the folder, brow furrowed.  The time stamp indicates Face left quickly.  There’s a blurred photo of him and a colonel: a tall man with a hooknose and a posture that screams discontent.  Face is cardboard stiff and Hannibal knows what his lieutenant looks like when he’s being reamed out.  The second and third shots are profiles: in the second the colonel reaches out with his hand, in the third, Face has danced further away.  Hannibal flicks between them, fast then slow, then fast again, his eyes narrowed.  

Murdock rolls onto his back, head cushioned on folded arms, lazy as a sunbather.   “His uniform is as bare as a baby’s bottom.”  

Hannibal stops, scrolls back to the first photo.  Insignia shows Face is now part of the 42nd Military Police, Delta unit, but there are no bars on his uniform, nothing to designate an officer’s pay-grade.  “Private?” Hannibal hazards.

“No joy there.”

“Watch it,” B.A. says feelingly.

Murdock grins absently, tracing the clouds in the sky, and points out one configuration happily. “Tyrannosaurus rex has a boner, boss.”

There are close to fifty photos in the folder, most of them are of army personnel that swept the scene; but eight members of Delta unit were snapped at various angles by Murdock.   Hannibal’s voice grows tight.  “You recognise any of these men?”

“The colonel’s Decker.”  B.A. takes the phone from him, scrolls back to the picture of Face and his new CO.  “He jumped career paths four years ago, went police, before that he held the line.  Word among the file was that he was pretty good, for an officer at least.”

“I didn’t know T-rexes were that flexible. “ Murdock sounds dreamy, three sheets to the wind. “Hey, boss, some of those Delta boys are still down there, at least two by my count.”

Hannibal lights a cigar, draws in a deep breath and holds the chemicals until the burn pinches at his lungs.  “You know, it seems only fair…”

“Tit for tat?” Murdock says eagerly, because if they're going to lose Face to Decker, it seems only fair they get someone in return.

“And then some.”

***

Corporal Menzek wakes with a scream curling the air.  There’s blood in his mouth, an abyss where his front two teeth should be, and the air is rank with burning flesh.  That’s him, he thinks distantly, and thrashes.

“Murdock.”  The man playing spot-fires on his skin lopes away, the cigarette lighter held between thumb and forefinger.  The same voice continues mildly.  “Sorry about that, corporal.  Murdock likes to play with fire.”  

Menzek shivers, he lets his head drop forward, his breath raspy with shock.  The last thing he remembers is patrolling the far corner of the warehouse, right before he walked into a brick wall with a Mohawk. 

“You know who I am, son?”

Menzek nods, his voice stuttering in the cold. “You went rr-rabid.”

Hannibal blinks at him in surprise then smiles.  “I guess that’s true.   Here’s the deal, tell me what I want to know or I’ll let Murdock bite you.”  The nutcase in the baseball cap lolls his tongue.  

Menzek feels the first spark of defiance creep down his spine. “We share the same uniform.”

“It’s been seven months since that was true, and let me tell you, it’s been a very… _shitty_ … year.” Hannibal leans forward in his seat, the glow of his cigar weaving like a demented will-of-the-wisp.  “We’re not normally this intense, son, but let me tell you, my temper is fraying short.”

Somehow, Menzek believes him.  “What do you want?”

“Your colonel has something of mine,” Hannibal explains kindly,  “and I want him back.”

Possession and threat are tangled together, silken as a promise.  Menzek shakes his head, quivers when he senses someone else behind him.  “Decker won’t trade with you.  Taking me is useless, we don’t deal with terrorists.”

“Fool, we ain’t begun to terrorize you.” B.A. circles in front.  The glint of his rings a cold reminder of the teeth Menzek is now missing.  “You want to tell us why Faceman isn’t in the stockade?”  

The colonel shifts minutely, his features drawn tight, keen as a predator.  Single-handed, Menzek has managed to locate the entire A-team, and the only thing he can hear is the soft click-click-click of the lighter spinning in Murdock’s grasp.  Suddenly he’s not interested in recognition.  “He doesn’t know.”

Hannibal’s eyes sharpen.  “Know what?”

“ _Anything._  His memory is all scrambled up. He came out of the wrong side of a beating when Donovan caught up with him.”

“Who the hell is Donovan?”  B.A. snarls.  

The same thought was clamouring in Hannibal’s mind, his thoughts racing.  Face was not in the habit of revealing his connections, or even how half of his scams operated, a simple case of the less his team knew the better.   The recrimination that floods Hannibal he shunts aside, believing Face betrayed them, because the emotion's useless now, and he can’t afford the distraction.

It’s actually Murdock who places the name, his face pale in the waning light.  “As in the shipping mogul?  Donovan Westen?”

Menzek nods.  “He took exception to his boat going down.”

There’s a screech of a chair being thrown, and Menzek is hauled out of his own seat before he sees the colonel move. Hannibal’s eyes blaze, the muscles along his forearm corded into knots.  He’s not sane, Menzek thinks faintly, he’s not sane and no one ever knew.   “Jesus, jesus, don’t…”

“Boss,” B.A. murmurs.  Menzek can’t see the expression, but there’s anger and guilt mixed together in his tone.  Beneath that, runs a warning.

The grip around his throat loosens, then flexes dangerously.  “And _where_ are they keeping Face?”

“Fort Lewis.  Barracks housing.”  

Home of the 42nd Military Police, the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the 1st Special Forces Group (Airborne).  “This should be cosy,” Murdock mutters.

Hannibal releases him, volatile as wet dynamite, and Menzek thinks something is terribly, terribly wrong here, something beyond his broken teeth and bruised throat. The colonel paces two steps away.  “Murdock, you have a recall on how many shots were fired?”

“Ach captain, me parrot and I saw all.  There was a shot in the leg, timber for a peg, and a quill in my hat, where a bullet did pass, and a musket to the wheel as we keeled to the port, and a….a tinkle?”

“A tinkle,” Hannibal confirms.  “B.A., check the van over, that was three high calibre jackets and something else.”  

The corporal’s already crawling over the outside of the vehicle, making soft noises of distress when he encounters the petrol leak, and cooing words of remorse. “Faceman’s going to pay for this shit.”

“Find him first; then you can have words.”  

Hannibal leans against a pillar for support, too proud to find his seat and unwilling to limp in Menzek’s presence.  He chews on his cigar, heedless of the petrol fumes until B.A. whistles sharply.  “Found Murdock’s tinkle, it’s a modified tracker, fired through the rear spoiler.  We need to move, Hannibal, like yesterday.”

Hannibal blows a smoke ring, head tilted to one side.  He’s thinking about the early days, before Templeton Peck got under his skin; he’s thinking about a kid who bucked orders, but only if he didn’t trust you to begin with.  “Not yet, we’ve still got the edge.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because Face doesn’t remember us,” Hannibal smiles slowly, “but I know _him_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _At the most basic level, a conman is a gifted observer. He needs to be able to intuit - and manipulate - what people want. _\- anon.__

_TWO WEEKS EARLIER:_

 

 

 “What do we know?”

“Harbor patrol fished him out of the water four hours ago.  Don’t know what went down, the boy took a beating, but he hasn’t said much since he awoke.  What we do know is that there are four crispy critters stinking up the morgue, and the national register has them placed as being part of Westen’s crew.”

Lynch feels his teeth peel back.  “As in Hamburg Westen Shipping?”

“One and the same.  Combined together those stiff’s had priors thicker than a telephone book, we’re thinking Donovan wasn’t too happy about his ship going down a month ago, let alone the millions lost in revenue.  Peck calls in a favour, sinks a black market boat, and Donovan hunts him down and takes it from his hide, except it went south.”  Murry confronts his notes, voice a staccato rap, Queens New York bleeding through in every second word.  “The explosion went down at oh-three-hundred hours, took the fire-crew the rest of the night to get it under wraps. Dental records were used for the burn victims, but your man came up under the database as a wanted felon.  Doc says he’s a walking bruise, severe sub dermal haemorrhaging and cuts, no memory to speak of.  Local LEOS questioned him with a Polly, and the kicker is, the little fuck’s not lying.”

“No memory,” Lynch repeats, disbelievingly.

“Somatic and procedural are both intact; episodic’s gone.”

“ _Fucker._ ”  They both draw to a stop.  Peck’s room is clearly marked with an MP standing by the door.  Lynch rubs his forehead.  “Sure he’s not playing us?”

“Nope, not at all.” Murry sweeps into the room, his French flawless.  “Comment nous sentons-nous aujourd’hui?”  (And how are we feeling, today?)

“Nous baisons ennuye.” (We are fucking bored.)

“See,” Murry says brightly, “somatic memory right there; happen to remember your address yet, kid?”

“You mean this isn’t my cheery homestead?”  

Peck settles against the headboard tailor style.  His body is open, like an invitation to play, but Lynch has been with the CIA for over a decade and Templeton’s eyes are blue granite.  He’s holding a pack of cards in one hand, fingers nimble as he riffles one-handed.  His torso’s indigo blue, as if someone had kicked him repeatedly; shallow cuts zigzag his stomach, the worst disappearing beneath the hollow of his hipbone. Bare foot and bare-chested, wires are still attached to an EKG monitor set up beside the bed.  The hospital pants are a size too big, the cuffs covering his toes like a kid dressed in his brother’s hand-me-downs.  The overall effect is confusing, on one hand he looks deceptively harmless - on the other, the man isn’t built like Baracus, and Peck is all lean muscle and zero body fat, the type of soldier that keeps moving.  “Have you remembered anything?”

Peck shrugs. “The tattoo speaks for itself, lack of dog tags though…” More quietly he asks,  “Am I a prisoner here?”  

For a man with no memory, he’s alarmingly calm.  

Seriously, Lynch doesn’t like him.  

“No.  I need to speak with your doctor for a bit, but we’ll start answering some of your questions soon.”  Lynch’s smile is practice perfect, every tooth gleaming white.  “Murry will keep you entertained until then.”

Templeton returns the smile tooth for tooth.  The first card he flips over is the Joker.

“There are three kinds of basic memory: somatic, procedural, and episodic.  Somatic memory deals with historical facts, song titles, languages he’s learnt, any general knowledge that a person accumulates over a life-time, and it’s all present and accounted for with Lieutenant Peck.  The second kind is procedural, otherwise known as muscle memory, in a nutshell that’s any kind of activity or skill that’s constantly repeated.  The neural pathways in the brain will react without prompting, think riding a bike, or, if he’s a soldier, firing a weapon.  It’ll be near instinct for him, natural as breathing.  The third is episodic, and that’s your problem child.  That’s any information _deemed_ _of a personal relevance_ , his past, his name, where he lives and what he’s seen.”   McNull is a forty-something doctor with thinning hair and perpetually harassed demeanour.  He’s talking around a mouthful of steak sandwich.

“He’s not faking?”

“Hardly, there’s a lump on the back of his head the size of an egg, it took twelve stitches.  Someone flogged him over good and proper.”

Lynch thinks about the knife cuts that curve around Peck’s hipbones.  “Why episodic?  Why not forget everything?  And is it permanent?”

McNull laughs without humour.   “Take your pick, it might last a week, a month, or a lifetime.  As for the first question, the brain is a mystery, but if I had to guess I’d tell you this; there are clear signs of torture.  If it’s personal information the interrogators wanted, then I’d say your lieutenant was reluctant to give it up.  The head trauma did the initial damage, but the memory loss is self-preservation.”  The doctor’s voice becomes bitter; “of some kind at least. “

You can’t tell what you don’t know, Lynch figures.  He looks toward the ward then snaps open his phone.  “Lynch here, I want a media blackout regarding the explosion on the wharf.  Don’t release the names of the victims to the press, or more importantly, _who_ they were associated with; and get me Colonel Decker on the line, I have a proposition for him.”

“You wouldn't know a diamond if you held it in your hand, the things you think are precious I can't understand.  Come on, Murry, play poker with me.”

“Did you just quote Steely Dan?” Ted says incredulously.

“Either that or Sting.” 

“We need to find you better tunes, and I already lost two hands.”

“I’ve been cooped up without answers.  Sacrifice.  I’ll even wager the Jell-O.”

Murry’s eyes light up.  “Deal.”

 

Templeton’s trying to play it loose, but the truth is he can’t shift an inch without his ribs screaming bloody murder.  Nausea rolls over him in a constant wave. In four hours no one but the police or CIA has come knocking, and if that doesn’t speak ill, then he doesn’t know what does.  Templeton wins the first two games of poker readily, the third hand favours Ted Murry and Peck watches casually.  The spook grins broadly when he wins, prior to that his poker face was perfect.  There are no tells in his expression during mid-play, but he rotates the ring on his forefinger when bluffing.  

Templeton loses the fourth game purposefully then does so again, just to be certain.

Lynch returns half an hour later with a pile of faxes. “Here’s what you need to know:  Your name is Lieutenant Templeton Peck, formerly of the 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment.  Two months ago you were absconded to a specialist taskforce, focused on the recapture of escaped felons, primarily three Army Rangers.  It was thought your expertise might help in apprehending them.”

Templeton blinks, surprise crossing his features before it’s locked away.  “What went wrong?”

“Hannibal Smith.”  Lynch passes a slim folder over, eyes locked on the heart monitor that’s still wired to the lieutenant.  There’s no significant increase when Peck opens the folder, his face intent as he stares at his former Colonel.

“Handsome,” he says casually.   “Pops did this to me?”

“No.  Police told you there were four stiffs on that harbor, we think you got too close and Smith hired someone to take you out.” Lynch settles against the wall, ankles crossed, and watches quietly as Templeton reads.  The hatchet folder includes psych evaluations, personal details, and early mission reports, most pre-dating Peck’s arrival to Hannibal’s command.

“Doesn’t seem the type.”

“Excuse me?”

Templeton looks him in the eye.  “To hire someone.  Hannibal reads more as a do-it-your-own kind.”

“FBI, Military Police and Intelligence have been on his tail for over a month, Smith can’t afford to show his face right now.  We’ve issued a media-wide blackout concerning the incident on the wharf; there’s no point letting him know you’re not dead, like he planned.  We could still use your help on this, off the record of course, officially you’re on posted medical leave.”

Incredulously, Templeton raises an eyebrow.  “And the gaping hole in my personal knowledge doesn’t bother you in the least?”

“Son, you said you were bored.”  Lynch proffers the other two folders and lets his voice slide into a challenge.  “Besides, you’re a Ranger, maybe you think like Hannibal.”  The lieutenant takes it carefully, eyes scanning the intel.  “Until your memory returns, we’re signing you over to Colonel Decker, you’ll report directly to him.  If you can help, do so.  But Peck, if you even get a whiff of where these men are located, under no circumstances are you to engage them.  Are we clear?”

“And if they find me?”

“Shoot on sight.”

Peck rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, and keeps his eyes trained away from Murry.  “One question, sir, who’s the 2IC in Hannibal’s crew?”  When Lynch doesn’t answer he taps the files. “Murdock is air support, the escape plan, he’s too valuable to risk on the ground.  If they were a clandestine unit operating in Iraq, then two men is not enough fire power for an effective op; who’s the third wheel?”

“Lieutenant Cornell,” Lynch supplies, voice saddening, “He didn’t make it out of Baghdad.”

There’s a gleam of light as the sun catches on Murry’s ring, a brazen copper as he rotates it on his finger.

***

“Are you fucking insane?”

“Deck him out in a uniform, make sure the equipment is well used, and tell Decker to damn well sit on that boy’s ass.  We use him while we can, Murry, and if or _when_ his memory returns, we lock him away.”

“You don’t think he’s going to research himself?” Ted demands.  He’s carrying a Jell-O cup in one hand, brow furrowed with concern.  “It’s the first thing I’d do.”

“Child of the State, his juvy records are sealed and he’s been running black ops for the better part of his adult life.  Peck will be lucky if he can find his name and DOB.  The military hearing was closed to the public eye, anything that’s relevant is on the military intranet, and we doctored that before I approached him, so have a little faith, yeah?”

“Faith my ass.”

Lynch grins, snapping his sunglasses on as he steps into the sunlight.  “It’s a beautiful day, Ted, you just need to know when to take a punt.”

***

The MP is still posted on the door when the spooks leave.  Templeton gives it twenty minutes before swinging out of bed, hissing between his teeth.  Colonel Decker is due to arrive within the hour and Peck doesn’t like playing with a half-scrambled deck.  He jimmies the lock on the window and swings out onto the ledge, bare toes curling against the concrete.  The window beside his ward is open.  He slips inside and waits two beats before approaching the bed.  The single occupant, an elderly man, doesn’t stir.  The only noise in the room is the hiss of the respirator.

Templeton opens the wardrobe, chooses a black v-neck sweater and pulls it on carefully.  By the time he’s finished, he’s broken into a sweat, a low-grade headache pounding at his skull.  He’s trying to play it loose against the gathering storm, anger and fear like a cold lash against his skin, a promise of mayhem.  

Peck thinks he’s not the forgiving type.

A scam only requires confidence, and Lynch had it in spades. He has no intention of leaving.  Templeton doesn’t know where he belongs, but he does know Lynch told the truth about some things, and was the picture of mendacity in others.  He lets the stress bleed from his features, pulls the plug on the old man’s respirator without a thought, and steps into the bathroom.

Fifteen seconds later the door crashes open under a bevy of nurses, and Templeton steps into the corridor without drawing a single eye.  

He selects the first empty office he can find and switches on the computer.  Past browsing history reveals the owner of the office liked busty Asians, and Peck takes a second to admire the screen before hitting the search engine.  

It’s on the tip of his fingers to type in his own name, or Hannibal Smith, but in the end it’s the memory of Murry twisting his ring that helps him decide.  Lieutenant Cornell, Hannibal’s chosen 2IC, was a fresh-faced soldier who died at thirty-two, the victim of roadside ordinance bombing outside of Bagdad.  The information is scant, DOD was the eleventh of August, and nothing further is available upon request.  Perplexed, Templeton shuts it down and leans back in his seat.

“You’re out of uniform, not to mention out of bed,” says a new voice, gravel torn.   Peck feels his spine stiffen when a hand flattens against his nape.  “I found the dossiers on your bed.  Lynch thinks you might be useful.”

Peck swivels his seat.  “Needed to check my email, but wouldn't you know, I forgot the password.”

“And so busty Asians dot com was the next solution?”

“Well, it was enlightening.”

Decker is old-school military, eyes avarice cold; his smile made up of edges. “You’ve read the files I presume?”

Weak spots, Pecks thinks, and stands, putting distance between them. “Find me a pair of boots and we’ll talk.”

***

The drive to JBLM is silent.  Peck peruses the files, flicking back and forth between them with his eyes narrowed.  Smith is some kind of god, or maybe demon among the Rangers, bravery citations and awards running the length of Templeton’s arm.  Up until eight years ago joining the colonel’s unit was a highly sought position, and then he went small.   _Very small._  A four-man operation with no transfers in and no transfers out, a zero body count that was nearly unheard of in the military, up until the moment Hannibal lost Lieutenant Cornell.  If he's going to find these men for the military, then it all comes down to the little details. 

Weak spots, Peck thinks, and remembers the lieutenant’s profile, good looking and fresh-faced. The colonel wasn’t married, didn’t date - he could be a eunuch for all the sex he wasn’t having, a DADT possibility, or maybe women didn’t intrigue him; getting his rocks off on the danger instead.  Baracus’ weak point is found in thirty-seconds flat: a single mother living out of Chicago.  Half of Bosco’s pay was regularly deposited into her account before the court-martial, and letters home were frequent throughout his deployment.  Both dried up since the escape.  The spooks have cased her house on two occasions, but it wouldn’t be difficult to change appearance, to soften out the military edges and appear as something innocuous.  They’re entry points, small fissures that Templeton can manipulate, but the easiest port of call is the third case file, and that’s one Captain H.M. Murdock.

***

The office is spartan, the scent of magnolia drifts in from the open window.  The yelps from the neighbour’s children punctuate the silence, catcalls erupting as Tony Stark mock battles aliens from outer space.   Donovan Westen closes the window and loosens his tie.  In appearance he’s a nondescript man, of average height with the beginnings of a belly, a receding hairline.  His eyes are a piercing blue, the colour of the sky on a crisp winter’s day.  He takes a seat heavily, lets the contents of the folder spill onto his desk. 

The photos are grotesque, bodies curled inward, flesh withered black; four corpses on the docklands with no explanation as to how Templeton Peck escaped.  

He turns the chair to face the window, finger scraping lightly over the cigarette patch on his forearm and places the call to Germany.  “It’s Westen, I need to speak to Jorge Hamburg.”  The on-hold music’s garish, accordion and flute.  He drops the phone to his shoulder and waits, eyes drawn helplessly to the images on his desk.  Donovan knew those men, spent four hours in the dark with them; his fists are still bruised from the repeated impact.  A chill creeps down his spine.  He flips the photographs over until they’re facedown.

“Jorge here.”

“We lost him.”

The accent is curiously transient, belonging nowhere.  “The other members of the A-team?”

Donovan grimaces, aching for a cigarette.  Outside, one of the neighbour’s kids topples, arms and legs akimbo, twitching in a death-throe.  “He didn’t break.”

“Port authorities watch our ships, Don.  Our anonymity is gone, lost when the _Die Vergeltung_ sunk fully unloaded. We lose money every day.   The black market is not a forgiving environment, is it?”

“No,” Westen murmurs.

“Then look up the name of my ship, Don; discover what it means.  I want recompense for the damages inflicted upon our company, and if not, you’ll see those men to their graves.”  

The dial tone is abrupt.  Westen replaces the handle, easing back in his seat.  He pushes the photographs to one side and picks up the cell instead.  The pre-paid mobile was taken from Peck when they first captured him, along with fake ID and a set of keys. The battery is low; no numbers are listed in its memory bank.  Westen turns it over in his hand and clambers to his feet.  His wife has a barbeque organised for tonight, and it’s best if he starts to prepare.  He places the cell in his hip pocket.

***

“Hey pretty boy.”

Perfectly balanced on one foot, Templeton picks the laces free on his boot, standing crane-like to spare his ribs.  The sarcasm comes naturally, “FYI, it’s not exactly an insult, but thank you.  I bless my mother for good genes. “

“Faggotty-ass response,” someone else mutters.  Templeton feels his mouth curve in recognition.  There’s something achingly familiar about this, the scuffle of booted feet and the weight of expectation.  Delta unit apparently doesn’t know him well, which only seems fair, since Templeton is at a loss himself.  

If Lynch and Decker played their cards close to the chest, then Delta unit is spilling theirs all over the saloon floor, scuffing up the aces, marking the queens.  The rank and file won’t attack an officer unless they are _extremely_ certain of themselves.  In lieu of further evidence, Templeton decided he was a likable guy; it would be a shame to ruin his chosen self-image.  He turns to consider them.  Three men, one Corporal Menzek and two MP’s named Asparsia and Cuddy, stand in the doorway.  He toes off his other boot.  

Decker promised to drop by later with his kit.  Beating the crap out of his assigned unit in the meantime wouldn’t be an auspicious start, he supposes.  “Come back later sweetheart, I’ve a headache.”

“Aren’t you a princess.”

Templeton snorts and heads toward the laptop. “If you’re feeling frisky take a run, otherwise I’ll see you at PT in the hour.”  

Behind him, Menzek has taken his minute of grace to size him up.  His voice turns calculating.  “We don’t need your help.  You don’t fucking _belong_.”

“Yeah.”  It _feels_ true, and it makes Templeton as cruel as Menzek.   “You’ve done a bang-up job in the last month. Congratulations on all the non-arrests and DNR taps.  I hear you have all of Mrs. Baracus secret recipes on tape.  Can’t be too careful, now, Bosco might explode out of a sponge-cake.”

Menzek’s face darkens, anger blots his vision.  “Cunt.”  He charges, feet sounding on the wooden boards.  

Templeton turns; fingers tucked in to the second knuckle and rabbit punches him in the throat, below the Adam’s apple. Soundless, Menzek collapses.  Peck sidesteps, hip to hip, drawing the corporal’s knife without breaking stride, and takes two steps forward, graceful as a box dance.  He ends up chest to chest with Asparsia, the knife angled low, tucked between the specialist’s thigh and scrotum.  “No, but I’m happy to oblige.”  

Asparsia’s arm shoots out, stopping Cuddy in his tracks.  “Don’t, not necessary man.”  He’s sweating, the edge of panic lighting his features.  “We just dropped by to say hi.”

Sweet as a rattlesnake, Templeton demurs.  “Hello there,” and turns the knife slightly, letting it scrape over vulnerable parts.

“Quit antagonising the troops, lieutenant.”  Decker stands in the doorway, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, back-lit by afternoon light and his voice thunderous. Peck taps the blade once in warning, then draws backward, stepping over Menzek to give the three men room.  The two MPs rush forward, grab the fallen corporal by the armpits and drag him away.  The blade Templeton holds on to.  He keeps his eyes downcast but he can feel Decker’s scowl all the way from the door, the muscle leaping in the colonel’s jaw, his expression black.  “What did I do?” Templeton demands plaintively.

“I wonder.” 

Bemused, Peck leans against the desk. “So, I wasn’t part of your unit before this?”

Decker drops the duffel, his voice gruff. “What makes you say that?”

“Hazing.  It only happens if you’re new, and grunts certainly don’t target officers, not unless you’re trying to write a bodice-ripper.”

“I prefer murder mysteries myself.”

“Convenient.”

“In case you forgot, you’re still dressed in hospital fatigues.  The boys didn’t know you were an officer.  It won’t happen again. Lynch and I don’t pool resources; so no, you weren’t part of my unit, you worked for _him_.  But here I am, baby-sitting your sorry ass.  Don’t go complicating things.”

“Nice, to be shunted along.”

“I understand there’s brain damage, so I’m being relaxed about your lack of manners,” Decker allows, letting the words curl into insult.  “But when that uniform goes on, you call me _sir_ , you keep your mouth shut, you do as I say, and you do not act like a fucking little irritant with my men.  Upset me, lieutenant, and I’ll throw you back in the bay and drown you like a kitten.  Clear?”

For a second there’s an overlay, a strange doubling of voices, where almond eyes could have been replaced with cerulean blue.  The sense of tethered frustration’s tangible, buzzing in Templeton’s ears like a swarm of bees.  The muscles in his stomach flatten.  Peck rubs his wrist absently, where the ligature marks have darkened into cruel hues.  “Yes, sir.” 

Decker frowns.  “Choose a bunk, we start early tomorrow.”

The first memory to return crawls into bed, snuggles into his mind between one breath and another.  It’s not traumatic, or even particularly relevant.  It comes in a series of impressions: warmth, sand, movement; the soft sway of the carriage and heat on burnished metal.  The babble of divergent languages - Farsi, Kashmiri and Urdu – is carried on the wind, along with the squeal of pigs, the squawk of caged roosters.  Livestock and humans alike share third class accommodation, camped on the roof of a moving train as it slithers through the Kharan desert.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the final carriage, facing the way they came.  The kufeya headdress and scarf protects his mouth and nose from the dust; his rifle remains under his robes, resting across folded knees.

“Crazy fool is trying to barter us a chicken.”   The voice is subterranean.   A presence settles behind him, spine against spine as they prop each other up.   Peck feels his body relax against the other man, shoulders broader than Atlas supporting his weight. He can feel the vibration as his companion continues to speak.  “It’s your turn to pluck and strangle tonight.”

“They’re not the type of birds I prefer to handle,” Peck answers easily.

An elbow jabs lightly into his ribs.  “Don’t care, it’s still your turn.”

“Kid, anything following us?” asks a third voice.

Peck feels the last vestiges of tension leech away.  “Nothing on the horizon.”

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder, fingers curling around his collarbone, dipping into his clavicle.   “Good.”  Touch-starved, Peck struggles not to lean into it.  “Think you can rustle us up a cook-stove?”

Templeton unfolds, settling into a squat, one leg braced in front for balance.  The shadow of the man standing behind him looms like a distorted giant, rippling across moving sand dunes.  The sun is a fireball overhead, a negative glare that bleaches the desert into ivory, like the exposed bone of a carcass laid bare.

“This is much better than going by chopper.” 

“Slower, too.”  There’s dissatisfaction in the third voice.

Templeton draws the scarf up higher.  He turns just as the sun strikes a windscreen, a blinding reflection of light that blots his vision, warns of encroaching danger.  The sky is cerulean blue.  

The dream shifts, changes locale seamlessly.   The arid landscape becomes damp concrete underscored by brine.  The wail of a foghorn sounds desolate, a mournful salute to those lost at sea. 

Templeton’s shoulders are a bark of pain.  Leather straps bite into his wrists, toes scrambling for purchase.  A fist drives into his kidneys.  The ceiling hook squeaks, rotating under the impact.

He’s not going to die like this. 

Hands steady him, halting the seasick carousel of movement, their breath rank beside his cheek. A thumb hooks into his belt-loops.  Peck thinks ‘blue’: eyes like the endless horizon of the Kharan desert; and snarls when teeth clamp into his shoulder blade.  He refuses to die like this, a mantra to all the gods he doesn’t believe in.  The fingers slide the material aside, petting the V of muscle that angles toward his groin.  The sly turn of the knife darts across his skin, the hilt a solid pressure against his bruised ribcage as he starts to bleed. 

 _“Where are they?”_

Templeton startles awake, sheets tangled around his body, and thrashes until he’s free.  The scent of seawater vanishes.  His skin cools rapidly, the headache screaming like a freight train.  Where are they?  He doesn’t know if the question originates with him or if it was whispered by the nameless threat, a precursor before the slip of a knife.

Reluctantly, he lies down, staring at Menzek’s blade until the dawn breaks over the distant range.  The first blush of sunlight is shell pink, the colour of closed eyelids, sweeping the land like a benediction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Do not show your wounded finger, for everything will knock up against it. _  
> \- Baltasar Gracian.__

 

Nurse Carol McBride’s worked at Tyrell’s Psychiatric Clinic for six years; she’s counting the next three until retirement.  She hopes to spend quality time with her grandchildren, spoil them rotten. A picture of Bora Bora resides on her desk, taped haphazardly beside a losing lottery ticket and post-it notes regarding the shopping.  She hears the squeal of tyres before the crash.

A man comes tearing into reception, dishevelled, his eyes wild.  “I need a doctor.”

A slow afternoon left Tyrell’s understaffed.  Carol was staving off boredom by perusing the appointment book to see who was lined up next, when interrupted.  She gapes at the stranger. “This is a _psychiatric_ clinic.”

“I hit a boy,” the man moans.  “God, what if he’s dead?”

The shock dissipates.  Carol rounds the desk, brushing the distraught driver aside.  “Show me.”  She’s thinking about her own grandson, how those street-rats loiter on the corner, selling illegal substances.  Too young to be on the street and too hungry to care, risking police records for a quick fix.  The boy’s on the ground when she steps outside, crying for his momma.  A second man, propped against the wall with his hands in his pockets, goes unnoticed.  Carol’s too busy pulling out her mobile phone and dialling an ambulance to see him saunter inside.   

The ruckus settles in less than five minutes; the boy sits up and limps stiffly to his corner before medical help arrives.   The driver, in turn, thanks her and pulls out of the parking lot as if Hades and all the hounds of hell were on his tail. Bewildered, Carol dusts off her hands and hollers, “That’s the type of driving that causes accidents, you prick!”  

Huffily, she watches a fine piece of ass disappear behind a corner before walking back inside.  Her screensaver hasn’t clicked on yet.  Carol frowns, her eyes drifting down the list of names on the computer.  She moans inwardly when she sees James Bigglesworth.  “Good Lord, not him again.”

***

“Got it?” Asparsia asks tensely.

“Yep.”

“There are half a dozen shrinks in the area, why this one?”  Templeton shrugs, eyes following the path of a restored Sopwith camel as it spirals in the air.  Frustrated, Asparsia says pointedly. “Decker’s going to be pissed when he discovers you left base. Didn’t exactly use legal channels, lieutenant.”

“Regret helping?” Peck asks curiously.  He turns toward the light, trying to soak up the rays and blot the other man’s voice out. Nothing feels right, the quality of heat a pale imitation.  After two weeks with Delta unit his interaction with the men remains strained. Menzek spits every time he passes by.  Petulantly, Peck has taken pains to walk past the corporal frequently.  If only to see how quickly he can dry the man’s mouth out.  

The sense of wrongness refuses to dissipate, ephemeral as a ghost.  The case files Lynch gave him were extensive when it came to Murdock.  Peck didn’t need to be a genius to realise the captain had prior dealings with the CIA, or the government had buried Murdock on foreign soil before Hannibal recruited him.  The psychological problems were real; but so was the effect of Smith’s team. Hannibal was a counter-balance, egging on Murdock’s finer moments of insanity and being the barometer through which Murdock judged reality.  He wonders what Murdock and B.A did, how they were pulled in so tight, sheltered, by another man’s orbit.  It’s been close to two weeks and no one’s made contact with Templeton.  Loneliness is a hollow tip to his chest, bitterly familiar. 

“I’m just happy keeping your knife away from my balls,” Asparsia mutters.  “You sure this is the same guy?”

“The phone number’s been updated four times in one month.  Mr Bigglesworth is using disposable cells.”  Templeton braces his knee against the dashboard, settles deeply in his seat.   “The computer from Tyrell’s listed the patient’s home address, which is sure to be a fake, but his contact number will be legit.” 

“We should tell Decker then.  Trace the number and pull Murdock in, _legally_.”

“Not yet, Murdock might lead us to the others.  We’ll let Decker in on the loop when I’ve eyeballed him.” 

Asparsia grimaces as Peck makes a ‘give-me’ motion.  How Asparsia was talked into a fishing expedition is beyond him. Lieutenant Peck wasn’t supposed to leave Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Asparsia’s certain the word ‘no’ was used.  Loudly, at much volume, before it was ignored.  His only consolation is that, technically, the lieutenant is still under guarded watch.  He hands over his mobile phone with a heavy thud.  Peck dials the number he stole from Tyrell’s, head turning to track a pretty girl as she crosses the street.  Asparsia listens to the tinny recording of the message as it’s played, doing his best to ignore the dirty boot on his pristine dash. Tersely, Peck says, “I’ve information about Lieutenant Cornell.  Come see me at Boyett Industries around two tomorrow.” He snaps the phone closed and tosses it toward Asparsia without looking.  

“You should tell Decker,” Asparsia reiterates.

Templeton shrugs, “I prefer to see some results first.  If I manage to ID Murdock I’ll call.  You bring Decker and the troops.” Hannibal’s team was tightly knit, just mentioning Cornell will pull their attention, and Hannibal broke his remaining men out of prison not once, but _twice_.  If he thinks Murdock's in strife, Hannibal will come.  Ironically, Templeton doesn’t think Delta unit would go to the same extremes for him.  There’s a kernel of need buried, running through his psyche like a fault line.  He wants approval on his own terms.  To make himself indispensable, needed, until Decker wouldn’t dare leave him behind.  

He has sex that night, slow and leisurely, the soft noises she emits muffled by her forearm.  Her eyeliner's smudged.  Nails blunt against his thighs.  He loses himself in sensation, pressed along the bow of her spine, thumb wet and steady against her clit.   She comes with a whimper.  

He breathes her in and rocks, gentle, imprinting on a connection he can trust.  Her responses a treasure map of honesty.  It doesn’t hurt. It never once hurts.  When it’s over, she laughs, out of breath and happy, her uniform in disarray.  She motions toward a package on the top shelf of the storage shed.  “Supply and demand, lieutenant.  One M4A01 sniper rifle, a modified 178B tag gun, and a real time GPS tracker with online maps, for the discerning driver, as requested.”  

Templeton grins, hands shaping the contours of her body, and kisses her, genuinely sweet.

***

“No, it was Face.  It was weird though.”  Murdock sounds wired, voice fluctuating between accents.

It’s been four weeks since Hannibal saw his boys; the rush of emotion surprises him, turbulent as a flash flood.  He scrubs a hand across his face, knuckles raking over a three-day growth, and deepens his tone, calming a spooked horse.  “How you been, captain?” 

“ _Notgoodnotgoodbillykeepshowlingatthegremlinsinmyroom,_ ” Murdock doesn’t pause for breath, his voice going up an octave in opposition to Hannibal’s calmness.  “ _ButthosegrelimsaretryingtogobbleFaceup_.”

Hannibal blinks, teeth grinding as he studies the film lot he’s consulting on.  Murdock is too far away, finely balanced on the knife’s edge.  “Have you been to the civilian clinic yet, son?”  It’s not what Hannibal wants to say; too indicative of a brush-off, but he needs to be certain that there’s help for his boys if needed.  He’d gone out of his way to locate Tyrell’s, if the clinic’s not assisting Murdock then it provides Hannibal with a perfect excuse to relocate.

“Face!” Murdock hollers in his ear.  

Hannibal jerks the phone away, walks a tight circle.  Sixteen years of shared bloodshed highlighted a person’s disposition.  If Hannibal were certain of anything; then he was certain Face, of all of his unit, would be the one to land squarely on his feet.  The captain’s more vulnerable though. Murdock had seemed steady when they parted, other than having his bell rung by Lynch’s gun at point blank he was in good nick.   Something had rattled him. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“Face wants to meet tomorrow.  He mentioned something about Lieutenant Cornell.”

Hannibal remembers Cornell easily, a good soldier who had a weakness for stray dogs, feeding scraps of food to them in the dirt outside of base camp.  Bewildered, he says, “From Charlie unit?”

“Uh-huh.”

Hannibal’s shoulders tighten.  “Did you call him back?”

“No, sir, he sounded out of sorts.  Way too quiet for the Faceman, not enough chatter.”

Hannibal nods, his smile grim.  Murdock being cautious is tantamount to the world ending, but the captain’s right; Face can rival Murdock for talking an earful.  He wears people down until they say yes without realising what they agreed to.  It’s when Face goes silent that Hannibal begins to fret.  “I’m coming your way.  Sit tight until I grab B.A.”  

Cornell died bloodily, his body ripped apart by a dirty bomb.  It was quick, violent, and brutal; but it wasn’t suspicious, not in the world they occupied.  There’s no reason why Face should be bringing Cornell up now.

“Wilco.”

Hannibal doesn’t imagine the relief in Murdock’s voice, or the sudden restlessness in his own, he’s too eager to head north and reunite the team.  Civilian life will send him to his grave faster than any military engagement, Hannibal’s come to realise.  Sheer boredom threatens to kill him.

***

Templeton enters Boyett factory at ten in the morning.  

He’s wearing Asparsia’s BDUs, preferring the rank and file _not_ to look him in the eye and salute while trying to dodge out of Fort Lewis.  The private’s parked two clicks away, sitting tight on a hand-held radio while Templeton scopes the factory.  He chooses his position fastidiously.   

Four hours later, H.M. Murdock bounces through the doorway, his voice a joyful shout:  “FACE?”  Nonplussed, Templeton uses the scope for a clearer view.  Murdock’s gangly in person, hair longer than military standard, his body rolls with a curious gait, as if gravity were optional.  “Hey Face, where you at?”

Confused, Templeton lowers the scope a fraction.  

A second man enters the factory, moving left into shadow, the imperative for cover a natural instinct.  Tall; his build is closer to Peck’s own: pared down to muscle and length, the stance predatory.  Templeton presses his thumb down on the radio twice in quick succession, and silently prays that Asparsia’s on the ball.  

“Murdock, something’s not right,” Smith says warningly. Peck raises the muzzle, finger poised on the trigger as the colonel edges toward the exit.  Murdock stands in the open, hat in hand, oblivious, “Captain, we’re leaving, _now_.” 

Not oblivious, Templeton corrects; Murdock is rigid, hands clenching into fists, his head lowered stubbornly.  He looks like a three year old about to pitch a fit.  Smith steps forward, taking the captain by the sleeve, guiding him toward the exit.  Hannibal’s eyes catch the light, cerulean blue, burnished like precious stone.  

And Peck’s back in the warehouse by the sea, a knife etching patterns into his skin.  His finger tightens automatically, a hairsbreadth reaction; then he drops the sight from Hannibal’s skull and fires.

***

B.A.’s van is parked three blocks northeast; the driver’s seat reclined to its furthest angle.  He has two books in front of him: an engineering manual and the collected works of Sun Tzu, which he flips between indiscriminately.  Unlike Face and Murdock, B.A. doesn’t have an ear for languages.  Other than ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘hello’ and ‘halt’, he’s never picked up the dialects of the countries he’s visited.  But when it comes to mechanical engineering, he outshines the entire team.  

B.A.’s just begun to overhaul his girl, reconstructing the engine block and adding creature comforts to the interior.  It took three weeks to find a suitable replacement for the vehicle he left in Mexico.  He’s done nothing but tinker since.  Eight years ago, rebuilding the van had been his saving grace; gave him something to focus on, beside Captain Horris and the trumped up charges that saw him dismissed from the military.  It gave him a reason to construct rather than destroy. 

Ironically, eight years later his entire world’s on replay.

The van isn’t pretty, the previous paint job painstakingly sanded away by hand; but she’ll get there.  He would have started the first coat by now if Hannibal hadn’t called, asking for a ride into Washington State, as if public transport were a minefield with pit-falls unseen.  B.A. didn’t mind.   It was good to see the boss man, to hitch up with that foolish pilot and pretend otherwise, to exchange information and act like everyone was coping.  The absence of Face was a black hole they talked around, sucking them in, until the conversation became fragmented with silence. 

As far as B.A. knows, Hannibal called Face’s mobile only once, an hour before the meet, from a payphone near a train station; he stayed on line until the number rang out.

B.A. isn’t adept at foreign languages, but he can read the lines on Hannibal’s face as if it were Braille.  He’d seen that expression before on a dusty road outside of Mexico, before the colonel put a bullet in his forearm.   Whatever Faceman has fallen into, it doesn’t bode well. 

Beside him, B.A.’s phone suddenly chirrups, his normal tunes replaced by Beyonce, demanding that someone put a ring on it. Affronted, he drops the textbook and scowls, silently promising to beat Murdock around the ears as he answers.  “What’s it?”

“Exceedingly unfriendly!” Murdock yelps.

He jams the phone against his ear, turns the ignition and pulls out, tyres skidding on the gravel.  B.A. remembers his first meeting with Hannibal, the curious expression on the colonel’s face as he listened to Face over the radio.  The lieutenant mocked Tuco even as the warlord doused him in petrol.  Face _trusted_ Smith to come, said it over the radio loud and clear; said it so Hannibal would _hear_.  B.A. wasn’t certain they’d make it in time, but he remembers the quiet pride on Hannibal’s face, as if Face had said or demonstrated something that finally _mattered_.  Hannibal had loaded his weapon, listened to every word and invective - memorising - in case the worst occurred.  

B.A.’s heard people die over a radio before, heard the screams, the quiet pleas.  It’s a soldier’s duty, perhaps, to mark those moments without comment, to listen until silence falls.  Eight years ago, B.A. instinctively knew what Hannibal was doing, and drove like a maniac to prevent it.   

In this moment, he can hear Murdock curse, Hannibal’s laboured breathing, and sweeps the van into a sharp turn, barrelling toward Boyett factories.  He has no intention of listening to his teammates perish, won’t pay heed to the danger they’re in.  B.A. accelerates as he approaches the wall, and sends the van straight through it. 

***

 _A grey and white GMC van smashing through the wall wasn’t part of Templeton’s original plan, nor was seeing his quarry streak inside the open door like Olympic contenders._

***

 **THE PRESENT:**

 **  
**

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”  The shove rocks Templeton on his heels.  Decker follows, face contorted with rage.  “You had specific orders _not_ to engage those men!”

“I didn’t stop for a chat!  I had an inkling; I used my initiative, I followed it up!” Templeton hollers defensively, “I found them, colonel!  If you’d moved your unit --”  The blow knocks the breath from his lungs, makes his eyes widen in alarm.  Templeton steps aside despite himself, fighting a dual instinct between retaliation and submission.  He waits one beat, two.  On the periphery of his vision, he can see Menzek sidle in close, pretending to scan the ground.  The corporal’s smirk is a crooked line across his face. 

Body rigid, Templeton settles into attention.  A hundred meters away, Murdock starts taking photos with his iPhone.

Decker’s eyes glint.  “Listen here you little shit; if I can’t trust you to report any and all relevant information, then I have no room for you on this team.  Yes, you found them.  But you failed to _apprehend_ them.  Those men have gone to ground.”

Templeton’s brow furrows, his mouth opening to object.  “No, hang on --”

“Speak and I’ll throw you in the stockade.  How the fuck did your former CO put up with you?” Templeton’s eyes slide toward him, furiously cold.  “I don’t tolerate screw ups in my unit. “  Decker swings around, features red, the blush disappearing down the line of his neck.  “Private Asparsia!” 

Asparsia looks ill.  “Sir?”

“I want a detailed account of your activities.  Cuddy, drop the lieutenant off at Helter Skelter. He can run the range until Lynch arrives.  This arrangement’s no longer viable.”

Cuddy glances between the two officers uncertainly. “How long will that be, sir?

“Do I care?  He runs it until he drops; dismissed.”

Templeton doesn’t relax.  He stares into the middle distance where the van vanished until Decker’s out of sight.  “Cuddy, I need you to drop me off at barracks.  There’s something I need to check.”

“Internet porn?” Menzek smirks, no longer pretending to search the ground for casings.  “We follow orders, sir; there’s nothing in your future but an obstacle course.” 

Frustrated, Templeton runs a hand through his hair. “I need you to _trust_ me.  I can find them, but we need to move now.” 

“I trust you to vanish off Fort Lewis, sir, and that’s about it.” 

“There’s a tracker on the van,” Peck says urgently.  “We haven’t lost Smith yet.”

Menzek does a double take, turning around quickly. “You have them tagged?”

“With a civilian GPS, you can track the vehicle on-line.  The access password is FUBAR.” The lieutenant holds his gaze steadily. “It won’t take Smith long to find it, Menzek.  You need to tell Decker.  He wasn’t in the mood to hear it from me.”

Menzek grins nastily, imagining a citation on his file, or a choice in his next posting, some goddamn recognition for a career that has gone nowhere.  Meeting the A-team face to face, being responsible for their recapture would carry his career a long way. “Cuddy needs to take you to the range.  It’s not worth our careers to risk the colonel’s wrath.  Not for the likes of you.  But if we happen to apprehend the A-team with your tracker, well, Peck, I’ll let you know about it.”

***

Joint-Base Lewis-McChord has eighty-seven thousand acres of land to its name, and Cuddy chooses the ass-end of the world.  

There’s nothing out here but the forest, conifer wood and a terrain that’s corrugated rough from the melt-water.  Peck runs Helter-Skelter track like there’s demons on his tail, arms and legs pushing against the confines of his skin.  Dappled light reaches him through the trees and everything is shimmering wet, his breath frosting the air.  

His memory of the layout says it’s a two-hour run to barracks; he’s also certain the track loops toward an access trail near Knoll’s Peak, a firebreak that eventually connects with the highway.  Either way he’s too late.  Smith and the A-team will be long gone.

Decker’s reprimand is one voice among a cacophony warring in his skull.  His headache keeps pace with the pounding of his feet, trying to out-run a mosaic of shattered images.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You come at the king, you best not miss." _  
> \- The Wire.__

_  
_

B.A.’s van is a write-off.  Murdock pancaked his first girl and Face shot the second lady to shit.   B.A.’s starting to become seriously pissed.  He examines the bullet hole in the petrol tank, the buckled rim, and pets her down the line of her smashed in nose.   He can hear Hannibal rummaging around inside, sorting through the equipment B.A. has squirreled away.  They’re going to need new wheels before they bug out.  He doesn’t have the necessary tools to fix the damage in time, not on the schedule the boss is running. 

The ballistic vest lands at his feet with a clang.  B.A takes a lengthy moment to stare at it before facing Hannibal, his voice flat.  “You’re kidding?”

“Put it on.”

“Man, give it to Murdock, he needs a vest more, and they don’t build those things for comfort.”

“Then suck it up, corporal, because I’m not joking. “  B.A. straightens, eyes narrowed dangerously.   Hannibal scrubs at the back of his neck.  “Look, B.A., I’m a high-ranking former colonel of the United States military.  If we clash, Face will take me alive.  You are a two hundred and thirty pound close combat specialist who out-weighs him two to one.  Face will kill you, and he’ll do it from a distance.  Pappa Hannibal doesn’t raise any fools.”

“And Pappa Hannibal didn’t think twice before cutting us loose, did he?”  B.A. snarls, resentment simmering to the open.  He motions toward his ruined van, the ballistic vest, and Murdock, sitting in a corner with his knees drawn to his chest.  “Man, where were you when Donovan came knocking?  Where were _we_?  Because I don’t recall having Face’s back!”

Hannibal's a smear of white, his fists curling loosely, “You want to do this now?”

“Should have done it a month ago.”

“Dammit Bosco, what was I supposed to have done?  We were felons, still wanted.  You could have disappeared, or gone back to Mexico, you could have vanished.  Separately, the three of you stood a chance.   _I had to give you a chance_!”

“For a normal life?  Why didn’t you ask us what _we_ wanted?”

“Because it’s not a damn democracy!”  

The paint tin clatters, swept clean from the bench table.  B.A.’s never seen Hannibal be anything other than frosty - the man with the plan - emotions, doubt, anxiety, all of it sliding off his back as if that shit never even touched him.  The anger won’t settle; it’s taking every measure of B.A.’s restraint not to punch Hannibal in the face.  “And convicts don’t have the right to vote?”

Hannibal breathes out, eyes closed.  Face was the changeling in their midst, blurring the demarcation line between junior officer and friend. The first flight after Mexico, Face took one look at B.A. and put the corporal’s seatbelt on for him, without a single smart comment.  Bosco’s terror was real, even without Murdock flying the transport.  Hannibal’s never understood that kind of fear but he’s catching a glimpse of it now, feels it crawling down his own spine.  “We’re getting him back,” he murmurs.

“Blame’s a lame game in Spain, gentlemen.” Uncharacteristically, Murdock had been near silent until now, watching Menzek with dark eyes. “Since we only have one vest, and my maligned hat can’t take another bullet, I present to you azerperone.” 

Murdock flips a small white bottle into the air; Hannibal catches it.  “You’re medicated?”

“Not today darling, all the walls are melting like a Salvador Dali print.  That, boss, is a rare antipsychotic that’s occasionally used on humans.  Primarily, vets use it as a tranquilizer agent.” Murdock grins. “I hope you know Faceman’s proper weight, sir, otherwise there’re side effects.”

“Like what?”

“Well for starters, you could kill him.  It’s used to take down elephants.”

“And they’re giving this to _you_?” B.A. says doubtfully.

Murdock bats his eyelashes. “I have a strong constitution.” 

As easily as that, the dynamic in the room changes, the need to strain, lash out against one another, knocked off kilter. 

In court, Hannibal had tried to take full responsibility for Baghdad.  Face speaking out of turn was necessary, clear indication to the brass that the unit followed Smith because they choose to.  If B.A. pushes, Hannibal will shoulder responsibility for this as well, but it’ll be coming from the wrong direction, and it won’t be fair.  Murdock knows where B.A.’s at, he felt the same disappointment when Hannibal told them to scatter, but Hannibal wasn’t the one who beat Face senseless, and he’s not the one Murdock wants to set his lighter to.  Anything else can wait.  He stands over Menzek and grins charmingly.  “So tell me little canary, where were they taking Face in such a rush?”

***

 **SEATTLE:**

The phone Donovan Westen has been carrying for a fortnight rings unexpectedly at one that same afternoon.  There’s no caller ID listed.  Pensive, he watches it vibrate across the mahogany desk, his finger tapping erratically.  

Smith, Baracus, and Murdock were yet to reveal themselves.  Peck was off limits; Westen’s contact in the Seattle PD saying the man had been taken into military custody.  

Westen lacks the resources and motivation to kidnap an officer from a U.S. installation, and the information regarding the rest of Smith’s unit was contradictory at best.  Westen wants Peck, to carve his initials in the lieutenant’s skin, to finish off what he started in that warehouse.  He revisits the memory, observes the minutia of responses; until he can hear the soft gasps Peck made as Donovan bled him.  People don’t withstand sustained torture, the hero myth doesn’t exist, but Westen’s time with Peck was cut short before he could discover the whereabouts of his team.  

It doesn’t make up for the millions they lost; replace a cargo ship that sunk in dock, or repair their standing within the tiers of the underworld, but torturing the A-team one by one send its own kind of message.

Westen fantasizes when he fucks his wife in the quiet spaces before dawn.  He wants to kill Templeton Peck slowly, bring Hannibal Smith’s full regard to bear.  He’s been waiting a fortnight for those men to reunite.

Westen catches the cell as it vibrates off the table, and wonders idly which member of the A-team just went fishing for Peck.

***

Peck’s been running for an hour when the sky cracks opens, shifting from an irritating drizzle to an all out flood.  He’s drenched in seconds; rain stinging his eyes as thunder rumbles overhead.  Tiny rivulets form on the track, dirt and leaves carried downhill. The ground becomes treacherous.

Decker’s reprimand is one voice among a cacophony scouring his mind.  The words become interchangeable - ‘screw up’, ‘reckless’, ‘smart ass’ – spoken by a host of faceless officers. His headache keeps time with the pounding of his feet, trying to out-run a mosaic of shattered images.

The memory, when it returns, is gentle as a caress, slotting into place with the ache of something held close.  He can remember her smile, the umbrella set up on the front lawn, the sly taunts from the older kids; the sloping curve of her neck.  He remembers her cooking to be irregular, lumpy, and how it always tasted perfect.  The way she danced to Steely Dan, how she would point out the constellations, her mouth placed beside his ear.  He thinks he may have been five when she was murdered, and if he didn’t understand why the older boys called his mother a bicycle (because everyone got a ride), then he understood that he had been loved once, cherished.  Virgo was the first virtue she sold.

He’s gasping when he reaches the top, head hammering.  A seven-foot wall with moss-covered wood looms in the distance.   Peck pushes harder, lengthening his stride as he approaches the first hurdle.  He scrambles the wall and hits the ground, crouched low on the opposite side.  

“Sorry about this kid,” Hannibal says, sounding anything but, and shoots him in the chest.

Peck staggers, eyes widening.  The pain is the sharp penetration of a dart, not a bullet – and the wiry old bastard waited until he was _running_ before he attacked.  An accelerated heart rate will finish Peck off twice as fast, the drug blanketing his reflexes as he slips to one knee.  

He lets the movement extend his body forward, vision blurring at the edges, and tugs his knife loose, the blade held surreptitiously against his thigh; none of his attacker’s approach.  Templeton feels his teeth grind, the ground shifting like tectonic plates, he can’t afford to sit still and they have all the time in the world. 

“I think he may have put on some muscle,” says a voice doubtfully.  Southern accent, four feet to the colonel’s left, and not whom he’s waiting for.  Peck closes his eyes.

“Maybe you didn’t dose him enough?”  Eight feet, right-rear guard, and Templeton twists, wrist and forearm an extension of one another.  Menzek’s knife doesn’t catch the light, the metal dulled to an ash-grey, but it hits with solid accuracy.  B.A. drops to one knee.

The colonel explodes from the tree stump he was resting on and rushes in low.  

Peck doesn’t have the memory (he doesn’t particularly want it back, to be honest), but he knows he was tortured and he knows this man gave the order.  His minutes are dwindling into seconds.  He’s barely on his feet before he’s tackled to the ground, Hannibal crashing into him like a freight train. They lurch up against the wooden wall, thigh between thigh and arms locked. Peck’s breathing through molasses, bruised ribs screaming, and the rage that hits him is homicidal, uncoordinated.  

He’s spitting curses, grinding his thumb into Hannibal’s bullet wound, when B.A lifts him clean off the ground. Hannibal trailing so closely he can’t lash out or kick.  

The three of them stagger like drunkards until B.A fetches up against a tree, Peck trapped tight between his arms, and Hannibal chest to chest with him, one hand fisted in his hair. Peck snaps his chin down, drives his skull backward into B.A.’s nose, and feels every bruised rib creak in protest when B.A. squeezes the life from him. He’s slowing down, heart thrashing wildly, and the cacophony of voices that followed him on his run dwindle into one: a low steady murmur that doesn’t let up, soothing him into the dark.  “Easy, kid, easy, it’s alright, you’re alright now.” 

It takes less than two minutes for the drug to take effect, and Face goes pliant, his body slumping forward.  Hannibal cups the lieutenant’s nape, lets the kid’s forehead settle against his shoulder.  B.A. meets his eyes over Face’s body, arms locked tight around his friend.  Hannibal has to shout to be heard over the rain.  “How’s the vest, big guy?”

“ _Dented_.”  B.A. shifts, feet slipping in the mud, and all three go down again, tangled like a puppy-pile.  The rain is a solid sheet of water, reducing visibility to mere feet; the chill speaks of possible hail.  Cursing, B.A. rolls onto his back.  “I think he broke my nose.”

“I need new stitches.”  

B.A. lifts his head, wiping bloody water on his sleeve, and looks around waspishly.  “Where the hell were you, Murdock?”

“Momma told me never to play in the mud, nothing but blue skies for H.M.; besides, I like Face better when he’s _not_ trying to kill me.”  The pilot drops to his knees beside them, fingers against Face’s carotid artery.  His voice goes strange. “How hard did you squeeze him, mud sucker?”  

Hannibal checks B.A.’s instinctive lunge before he can do any damage, and says as an aside. “I wouldn’t call him that again, Murdock.”  Face’s shirt rucked upwards when they fell.  Murdock pushes the soggy material aside, revealing the bruises that have mottled into a virulent yellow.

“Not that hard,” B.A. protests.

Hannibal rests his fingertips against the network of lines, whorls and dips, a scrawling knife-print on the canvas of Face’s body. His voice becomes rough. “Get him up.  We need to leave.”

***

Decker casts an eye over Peck’s kit and deduces he’s still on the range.  The lieutenant has a small island of space around his bunk; none of Delta chose to infringe upon him. 

Decker ambles to the wooden desk at the far end of the room where a makeshift ‘office’ resides.  An antiquated computer, phone, and a legal notepad adorn the small space.  He dials an outside number to Virginia by memory, planting his hip against the desk.  

Beside him, the computer’s stand-by light blinks.  

He’s feeling uneasy.  Peck’s presence in the unit was an insult, the fact that he tracked down the A-team in less than two weeks a professional slap.  Peck was given orders _not_ to engage Smith and ignored them.  Decker won’t tolerate insubordination.  More importantly, he can’t trust that Peck’s memories are not returning. Lynch’s social experiment has a limited life expectancy and Decker won’t be the idiot on the wrong side of an official inquiry.  

“I’m putting a stop to it, Peck’s too unreliable.  This is just a courtesy call to tell you the lieutenant will be in the stockade by tonight.” 

“Hello to you too.  I heard on the wire the A-team was involved in a police pursuit this afternoon.” There’s a studied pause before Lynch continues: “You’ve been given a considerably smaller radius to work with, Decker.  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“I can’t work with Peck if he’s undermining my orders.  What if he wakes up tomorrow knowing _exactly_ where he’s from?  I have a member of the A-team in my grasp, Lynch, you won’t allow me to cage him.”

“The doctor said his memory might not return at all.  Let him have a crack at it, he’s done what military intelligence failed to do in a month, even with their outlandish budget.”

Decker grinds his teeth, staring out the window as Cuddy pulls up in a Humvee.  The private scrambles from the vehicle and bolts under the awning, one hand on his hat as the sky flickers with lightning.  “I won’t be left holding the bag on this.  If you want to argue jurisprudence or interfere in the legalities of _my_ brief, then I want confirmation from your department written in _triplicate_. I won’t be burnt at both ends like Colonel Smith.”  He slams the phone down viciously.   Smith was a cowboy, whatever achievements the colonel attained were worth nothing if he couldn’t colour inside the political lines.  Not following protocol is what landed Smith in the shit to begin with.  

Cuddy enters, looking around the barracks apprehensively.  

“Private, you drop Lieutenant Peck off at the range?”

“Yes, sir, he should finish the circuit in a couple of hours.”

The man is clearly nervous, shuffling his feet like he needs to take a piss, dripping water everywhere.  Wearily, Decker asks, “What is it?”

“Corporal Menzek, sir.”  Decker makes a ‘get on with it’ motion, and Cuddy says in a rush:  “I dropped Peck off at Helter Skelter, like you said, then drove back to pick up Menzek and Private Mathers from patrol duty.  Only the corporal wasn’t at the factory, sir.”

Decker straightens in alarm.  “What do you mean?”

“Sir, Lieutenant Peck said he had a GPS tracker on Smith’s vehicle.  Menzek was supposed to tell you but --”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”  Decker spins, stabbing his finger against the computer’s keyboard.  The screen flickers to life, casting his features into blue light.  The homepage to Rastrac Industries - GPS sales and tracking - confronts him.

“FUBAR,” Cuddy whispers.

***

Menzek awakes to the sound of sheep bleating and a god-awful stench.  The temperature is ice cold, wind rushing at his collar as he tries not to vomit into a gag wedged between his molars. He’s in the back of a truck, hands and feet tied together, lain out on his stomach until he resembles a boxed parcel.  Livestock presses close on every side.  

The tracker Peck fired into Baracus’ van has been tucked neatly into his top pocket, flashing as merrily as a Christmas light.

***

Templeton regains consciousness awkwardly: there’s a chemical film on his tongue, bones weighted with lethargy.  He remains motionless, cataloguing the sounds in his new environment.  His wrists are cuffed behind him, both hands encased in soft woollen.  He lost his clothing along the way, stripped to his boxers and wrapped in blankets.  Cigar smoke curls around him, fouling the air.  “I know you’re awake, kid.”  

There’s a decompression near the foot of his bed, the squeak of a chair moving.   Templeton opens his eyes.  He makes a show of stretching, twisting his upper body until he can catch a glimpse of his hands.  Two sock-puppets eyeball him, their ‘bodies’ reaching the tip of his elbow.  Button eyeholes and Machiavelli moustaches sneer, as if depicted by a five year old.  The absurdity doesn’t negate their effectiveness: he can’t pick the lock if his fingers are stuck in mittens.  “Clever,” he mutters.

“It’ll stop your wrists from chafing,” Hannibal elaborates, as if it were the only consideration.  He’s sitting on a chair, feet propped on the foot of the bed.  A newspaper rests against his lap, laid open to the financial section.  His gaze is direct, unwavering.  Two weeks ago, Lynch showed a photograph of Hannibal Smith and Templeton said the colonel was handsome.  In person, up close, Hannibal is damn near magnetic.  Uncomfortable, Templeton looks away.  The trappings are pleasant; the circumstances less so.  Outside, the rain hammers against the window.  “How’d you find me?”

“A little birdie named Menzek, he gave you up like a two dollar trick.  He also said you were having difficulty remembering a few key facts.”

“Such as?”

“Like whom your friends are.”

“Because nothing says friendship like handcuffs in bed,” Templeton deadpans.  He props himself up onto his elbows, rolling his pelvis until the bracelets don’t jab into his spine.  Keenly, he notices the colonel track the movement, eyes zeroing in on his groin, and Templeton feels his jaw clench. 

“For a limited definition of friendship.”  Hannibal drops the newspaper to the floor, planting his feet on the ground as he rocks forward in his seat, his voice all business.  “How much do you remember?”

“I know I’m a likable guy; everyone wants to kidnap me.” 

It’s the same smart-ass tone Face adopts when antagonising warlords the world over.  Impatient, Hannibal snorts.  “Quit it with the attitude, kid.”

“Bite me.”  

There’s a flash of genuine anger, no longer hidden beneath amicability. It’s a start, Hannibal supposes.  He rubs his chin thoughtfully, drops his hand to Face’s shin.  The kid tenses, muscles bunching quickly then releasing.  Hannibal would have missed it if he weren’t looking.  Face is too well versed to flinch; instead, he deliberately _relaxes_ into the touch.  Hannibal feels his gut twist with suspicion.  

“I’ve been scrubbing mud out of places where the sun don’t shine; half of Fort Lewis will be hunting us, and you shot me in the leg.  Do not fuck with me, Face, what did Lynch and Decker tell you?”  

“Never to give it up on a first date.”

Hannibal’s almost forgotten how to do this.  Anger he can cope with, utilize to his own purpose, but Face’s flippancy is an ice wall, offering no purchase or grip, only a terrifying freefall into strategic distance. He scrubs a hand over the hair on his neck and considers the other man calmly.  

Hannibal’s spent the last two hours wrestling Face into some semblance of cleanliness, waiting for him to wake up.  The drug hasn’t cleared the kid’s system yet; pupils dilated until only a thin rim of blue is visible.  His hair is damp, sticking up in spikes like a bedraggled crow. Hannibal noted the injuries, smudged his thumb over the bruises, he watched Face breathe quietly until he found a measure of inner peace.  Good intentions didn’t cut it if there wasn’t a payoff.  Hiding separately afforded his men no more protection than if they had remained as a unit.  Hannibal lost his rank, name, position.  The only thing left; the only thing worth fighting for, occupies this house, and he has no intention of losing it.  

“The scar on your nose is from Captain Reynold’s.  He caught his wife sharing your bed; split the skin open with his wedding ring.  You’ve been a chalk leader in my regiment since ‘94, the last eight directly under my command, and I’ve valued your _friendship_ since the day we met.”  Hannibal meets his stare, not trying to sell or spin, just pushing the sense of honesty across the room until the other man can grabble with it.  “B.A., Murdock, myself, we didn’t know what had happened to you until a few hours ago.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there.  I’m sorry the team didn’t have your back.  But I won’t apologise for snatching you off base.”  Hannibal retrieves the newspaper from the floor, resettles his feet on the bed, and goes back to reading the financial section.  He can feel Face’s stare like a bullet to the side of the head.  

As far as interrogation techniques go, it justly qualifies as a _WTF_ moment.  

In the last fortnight, Peck decided he’s many things, but he’s not patient.  He glares daggers at his torturer/foe/former CO or whatever the hell he _is_ until the muscles tighten in his face, trying to see the angle of the colonel’s play, what he hopes to _gain_. Unperturbed, Hannibal completely ignores him.   

Face stews all the way through the financials and into the TV section before he asks, “Lieutenant Cornell wasn’t part of your team?”

The first strand of the lie, Hannibal thinks, and breathes out, ready to pluck it.  “No, never once considered him.  Not adaptable on the ground and not in your league.   What else did Lynch say?”

“Take the cuffs off,” Face parries.

“Not for all the tea in China.” Hannibal taps his good leg pointedly.  “I’d like to keep it in working order if you don’t mind, all the better to dodge Decker with.”

Face’s brow furrows, studying the wound clinically; it seems like days rather than hours since he shot the colonel.  It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if Hannibal got all the mud out before he bites down on the concern.  “He said you’re a wanted felon,” he ventures.

“True.  We impersonated Houdini without proper authorisation, not worth spending a decade behind bars for.”

“What do you want from _me_?”

“Twenty-four hours,” Hannibal says immediately.  “Don’t try to run, sit still and listen.  When the time’s up, if you want to leave, I’ll cut you loose on the condition you don’t return to Fort Lewis, or contact Decker.”

“Agreed.”

Hannibal taps the ash from his cigar and smiles pleasantly.  “When you say it with a smidgen of honesty, I’ll take the cuffs off. “ Hannibal stands up, stretching the kinks out of his spine, and limps toward the door.  

B.A. falls into step with him when he exits.  “How’d it go?”

“Difficult to say.  Face doesn’t trust us, not yet, but I don’t think he has much faith in Decker either.”

***

Templeton sits fully upright, places his palms on the bed and hitches his upper body a millimetre into the air.  He swings his hips through the loop of his arms, contorting into a ball and wiggling until his hands are behind his knees, before he draws his feet over the chain one at a time, bringing his hands in front of his body.  

He was a hell of a lot more flexible when he was sixteen, Templeton thinks absently.

He bites down on the toe-end of the sock puppet and tugs until it’s dragged clear from his hand, examining the lock critically as he stretches his fingers.  It doesn’t look good, there’s nothing in the bedroom but the bed itself, no side drawers, cupboards, or shelves, nothing that he can easily pick a lock with.  

On the upside, his shoulders are comfortable.

It doesn’t make sense that Hannibal would order his near evisceration, go out of his way to capture him a second time (a mere four hours after Peck shot him), only to tuck him into bed and read the paper.  Inconsistencies seem to be ruling his world as of late.   The only thing Templeton wants with certainty is Tylenol, or a drink to wash the drug’s aftertaste from his mouth.  

He frees his left hand from the remaining sock puppet and wanders casually into the adjourning room.  B.A. and Hannibal are gone.  Murdock stands beside the kitchen stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti.  He doesn’t startle when Templeton approaches, merely steps to the left, making room for the lieutenant as he hums to himself.  

Hands chained, Templeton searches the cupboards until he finds the aspirin.  He pops the lid and swallows two pills dry, squinting against the fluorescent light.  

“Hungry?”  Murdock asks casually.

“No.”

“Want to play scrabble?”

Templeton boggles at him.  “Is this your home?”

“Nope, we broke in, stole the car, used their shower, tried all their beds, and ate their porridge too,” Murdock grins, pouring the pot of children’s alphabet spaghetti into four plates.  “Holiday houses are fun.”

Templeton’s mouth curls upward. “Right up until the bears come home.”

Murdock’s smile is in his eyes, a certain mischief seen in the slant, an invitation to play, and Templeton thinks this could be a possible buddy right here, kin of a more eccentric kind.   He feels his headache start to abate, the aspirin kicking in.   “Pass me a plate.”

Hannibal steps into the room to find Murdock and Face bent over a table, so close together their heads are almost banging.  He meanders to the fridge, grabs three beers, and drops into a seat beside them. “How many cans of alphabet spaghetti did you open?”

“Six.  Murdock keeps eating my nine letter words.”

Hannibal relaxes marginally.  “I have your promise?”  Lazily, he spins the key to the handcuffs across the table.  Hannibal’s aware of the crosscurrent, uncertainty versus hostile suspicion, and all of it too visible on the lieutenant’s features.  He’s starting to feel like Cornell, sitting in the dirt of Baghdad, coaxing the wild dogs to come in. 

Face unlocks the handcuffs, his smile a bright warning. “Twenty four hours...and I’m a punctual man.”

“No doubt.”  Hannibal catches Murdock’s eye and nods thankfully.  He hasn’t pushed yet, but Face won’t look him in the eye for more than a second.  Sending in Murdock had seemed the easiest compromise.  Face loosened up around the pilot, always had, accepting Murdock’s peculiarities without judgement.  “Right now, Decker’s heading down Highway 14, chasing Menzek toward California.  With any luck, no one will be looking at Fort Lewis’ own backyard.”

Face places the cuffs and key on the table.  “Where’s Baracus?”

“B.A.,” Murdock corrects. “Or Bosco, big guy, mud sucker (Hannibal winces, mouthing silently: don’t call him that), grease monkey, cuddle-pie…”

“How about big angry man, standing behind your crazy-ass back?” B.A. rumbles.

“Overly long but soulful.” 

B.A. plucks the beer from Face’s hand just as he’s about to drink, and drains it in two swallows.  “Lay off the alcohol, man, your eyes are still dilated.” 

“Thank you,” Face says sarcastically.

Hannibal watches his men jostle, searching for clues in their body language, the tempo of their conversation. Murdock trespasses into Face’s personal space with relative ease. 

“Eat up, guys, I’m in the mood to visit the seaside.” Hannibal sees the protest forming and cuts it off before he can start.  “You promised twenty-four hours, kid.  I didn’t say we were going to sit _still_ for it.”  Experimentally, he lifts one of the plates, proffering the food to B.A.   “It’s twenty miles to Seattle, if you gents want to double-check equipment, now’s the time to do it.”  

B.A. leans forward, looming over the back of Face’s chair to accept the spaghetti.  The kid twists, cat-quick, his expression blank.  A quick lunge places him halfway across the room, out of reach, before he stalks into the bathroom.  

Hannibal bites the end off a cigar and lights it, the flare of light illuminating his features.  “Stay off his six.” 

Murdock looks unhappy.  “No contact unless he initiates it, no approaching from behind.  He’s inclined to hit first, and you could have just asked me.”  He pulls his hat off, pokes his middle finger through the bullet hole and waves it tauntingly at Hannibal, the gesture universal.  Belatedly, Hannibal realises B.A. isn’t the only one pissed at him for splitting up the team.  

Murdock’s anger is free-floating, two-fold.  

Hannibal sees himself shoring up damaged fences in the future, trying to mend the perception of neglect, but he needs to deal with the threat first.  “Softly, softly, captain.  Face knows how to compartmentalise.”

“With all due respect, sir, he compartmentalised us right out of existence.  It’s not flattering to my self-esteem.”

“He torched four men on the docks when they pissed him off.  Whatever happened, Face _dealt_ with it, just give him time to…”

“Deal with it?” Murdock says tartly.

“That too.”

“You really going to turn him loose after twenty-four hours?” B.A. looks as disgruntled as Murdock, stabbing at the alphabet with his fork.

“Well, I have no intention of sitting on him for the rest of my life, so, yes.”

“Shouldn’t we start showing Face things?  Evidence?  Stuff to jog the memory?  Maybe we ought to forget about Seattle for a little bit.” B.A. twirls his fork mid air, ventures casually.  “Sosa could help us out?”

“Who’s Sosa?” Face sounds intrigued by the name, re-emerging from the bathroom with a towel in hand.  

“No one,” Hannibal says shortly, then grimaces, amending; “a distraction.”

“A leggy one,” Murdock drawls.

Hannibal’s jaw tightens, his impatience for Face’s philandering a flare of resentment, running hot down his spine.  Hannibal has seen kids join up because their parents banned toy guns at home, the unwritten law that whatever a person is deprived of becomes golden.  

Face is a tomcat, falling in and out of love with the joy of someone enthralled by a ride.  He seeks physical contact the same way people tilt toward the sun, touch-starved, overdosing as an adult.  It’s a distraction that has jeopardised the team’s objective more than once, and it’s grated on Hannibal’s nerves since the day they met.  Sixteen years was a long time to watch, to note the miniscule of sexual gambits.  Sosa had come the closest to winning, the closest to taking, and Hannibal remembers the slippery sense of panic; knowing time was running short.  _You don’t need Sosa_ , he thinks viciously, _you never have_.

Hannibal looks up to see Face staring at him, perfectly still, and feels his stomach drop.  

There are things they don’t talk about, matters his lieutenant chose to overlook, and Hannibal’s love for the military overshadowed other considerations.  He’d been happy to maintain the status quo until now.  Quietly, he offers, “You’ll remember Captain Sosa soon enough.”  

Quietly he thinks, _why is Murdock allowed inside your guard_?

“You have my clothing?” Face asks blandly.  

Hannibal knows he gave too much away, revealed buried treasure with a mere inflection, his tone as good as a map.  This version of Face has no memory, isn’t inclined to ignore presented clues, and the kid’s uncannily good at reading ciphers. “Boots are under the bed, fatigues are in the spin cycle.  You can grab a Henley from B.A.”

Face nods, toes curling against the tiles, shifting his balance from foot to foot.  “I don’t remember you,” he says succinctly.

“I promise, you will.”

The scar along his hip looks angry red in the light, raised upward like a welt; the shallower cuts a faint latticework that will heal without scarring; Face rubs at the back of his head, squinting as if from a migraine.  “You should listen to B.A.”

The three men look askance at one another when he vanishes.  

Coldly, Hannibal says, “I want Westen dead.”

***

Templeton pulls his boots on, laces untied, and flops back on the bed, urgency thrumming through him like a vibration.  He wants Hannibal to steer clear of Seattle.  He can’t shake the feeling of impending danger, the need to protect pulling at him like a phantom limb.  He opens his eyes wide, prying into the vacant lots of his mind.  Beside him, the sock puppets sneer distastefully.

“You haven’t tried to remember much, have you?” Murdock says, amused.

“No.”  Survival school 101: Don’t carry excess baggage; and Face is an apt pupil.  He catches himself, probes over the moniker he unconsciously adopted, mouthing Templeton until the name feels right again.

“Wish I had your gift,” Murdock admits.  “Must be handy to shut it all down.  I have the team, or _had_ ; now it’s just clinics and Polly.” The captain gestures toward one of the sock puppets happily. “He’s a good listener, if you want…?”

“That’s so profound; I have a tear in my eye.”

“Pissy, pissy.”  Murdock dives on the mattress, belly-crawling over the other half of the bedcover, his eyes bright.  “You don’t _want_ to remember?”

Templeton breathes out.  “I figure it was lost for a reason.”

“That’s what I thought, too; you forgot us for a reason.”  Murdock squirms, strokes a finger down the length of his parrot; he drops the non-sequitur like a bomb.  “Don’t let Hannibal send me to a civilian clinic again, Face.  It doesn’t help.”

Templeton turns his head, rebuttals falling by the wayside; his mouth feels numb.  “Why tell me?”

“Supply and demand.  We demand, you supply, it’s how we work.”  Murdock’s eyes are wide, serious, not a glimmer of insanity.  “Life isn’t the same when the team’s separated and Hannibal _listens_ to you.”  

Watching Murdock is like flicking through a cartoon drawn from the thirties, a jerky stop/start motion that stutters into clarity.  The pilot hid himself in front of the CIA for the better part of a decade, claiming insanity, protected by Hannibal’s name and shielded by the team.  Face thinks Murdock’s a better conman than previously given credit.  Helplessly, he nods.  “Okay.”

Murdock grins, lunatic wide, and holds his fist out until Face bumps it.   “Why would you want to forget us for?”

 _They want to kill you_ , Face thinks, heart stuttering, _he wants to skin Hannibal alive_ , and for a man he can’t remember, for a team he holds no loyalty to, the fear is out of proportion.  Overweight, receding hair, and so damn ordinary except for the colour of his eyes.  Templeton squeezes his own shut, nausea a wave rolling through his stomach, the memory withdrawing from reach.

“Atta boy, take your time; but we’ll be needing you soon.  You need to come in out of the dark.   Hannibal’s going nuclear, and he doesn’t have Polly to calm him.”

Affronted, he opens his eyes again.  “Am I the bird in that analogy?”  

He beats Murdock over the head with a pillow until the other man shouts with laughter.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Stop cheating!" the dealer told the card player. "I'm not!" claimed the player. "You must be," said the dealer. "That is not the hand that I dealt you." _  
> \- anon.__

_  
_

From what Hannibal has been able to piece together from Face’s distorted account, Menzek, and the lies told by Lynch, he knows Westen held his lieutenant captive for a night.  The captivity ended with an explosion on the wharf, four corpses burnt to a crisp, and Face bereft of his memories, suffering concussion and a severe case of keep-the-fuck-away.  If it was payback for _Die Vergeltung_ , Westen should have executed Face, no chances taken.  Torture implied the gathering of information. 

If Westen wanted Hannibal’s attention, then he has it.  

Each member of Hannibal’s team has a skill set; most of those skills are interchangeable with a few minor exceptions.  His team blurs the line, swapping positions as needed, but there’s one task Hannibal won’t delegate.  He’s been where Westen has: twisted the knife to gain information; dim lighting, dank walls.  He’s not proud, never enjoyed it, and he doesn’t let it sully his men.  On the two occasions Hannibal has employed torture, the _genuine_ kind, he’s done it without the knowledge of his team.

Donovan doesn’t strike him as having scruples or any code at all.  

By returning to Seattle, they’re stepping into a game already in motion; a bad ploy unless you’re ready to throw the rulebook at the dealer’s head and ante up.  He scuffs his feet against the ground, takes a seat on the porch step, staring into the night sky.  The rain has finally eased, clouds parting to reveal the celestial heavens, bright pinpricks of starlight.  He places his palms on either side of the bullet wound, presses down, trying to ease the ache against the stifling cold.  There are dark spots on his jeans.

“That’s Spica, the brightest star in the Virgo constellation.  My mother used to sit in a lawn chair at night, naming them as they appeared.”

Hannibal freezes, hope razing through his emotions; Face has spoken about his mother maybe twice in all the years Hannibal has known him.  Carefully, he turns his head, says quietly, “You’re starting to remember?”

“Bits and pieces.  The memory came this afternoon, before you interrupted my run with aggravated kidnapping.”  Petulantly, Face drops down beside Hannibal, one foot of space between them but closer than before.  “I thought this shit was meant to crash over you in a wave, not crawl home in dribs and drabs.” 

“You never learnt the finer points of patience.”

“I’d be as patient as a saint if people would stick to one story.”

“Says the con man.”

Face grins, honestly amused.  “That karma comes back to bite you on the ass, boss, and it ain’t fun.”  Hannibal’s expression creases, humour setting the laugh-lines into stark relief.  It feels so close to normal, so _them_ , that Face’s reminder of mistrust is a paper-cut slice.  “Why _are_ you returning to Seattle?  Supposedly, your team’s here.” Face unfolds the newspaper Hannibal was reading earlier and shakes the pages out.

“I know Westen’s type.  He won’t quit until he’s made an example.  Neither will I.”  

The colonel’s eyes glitter, cold as the distant stars.  Templeton stares at him, not ducking his gaze or turning away.  Hannibal’s intent doesn’t read as entirely sexual: it feels _proprietary,_ concern mixed with want, menace stretched taut.  The gaze is loaded with a history Templeton is no longer privy to; it makes him edgy with caution.  “Lynch said you were responsible for the calligraphy on my stomach.”

“You thought I had you tortured?” Hannibal says blankly.

“You have a certain intensity.”

Hannibal’s fists curl, the pitch in his voice unsteady.  “I can’t - You’re _mine_ , Face.  You, B.A., Murdock; I chose you boys.”  He struggles, not as conversant as Face or Murdock, he doesn’t have that gift of phrase that sends barriers crashing; words hold power; names, reputations, even more so, Hannibal believes it down to his bones.  “Do you know what _Die Vergeltung_ means?  I can’t let Westen go; I’m not that forgiving.  Not now.”  They both need to make an example.  Hannibal needs that message to travel across borders and wash up on distant shores, to worm its way into Jorge Hamburg’s ear: Hannibal's team is off limits.  

 “So we’re heading to Seattle.”

“With a snag or two.  B.A. had a crisis of faith on our last op; this isn’t military versus military, and I don’t want to cause unrest.”

“He doesn’t want to kill civilians?” Face deduces.  He reads the article blindly, skimming over the report to catch the journalist’s name.  “You respect that?”

“I respect B.A.”

Cautiously, Face says, “You could leave him behind; him and Murdock both, it doesn’t have to involve them.”

Hannibal rocks as if hit.  “If nothing else, you just proved how scrambled your memories really are.  Try running that by B.A. and see how long you last.” Peck grimaces, turning back to his paper, and Hannibal returns his attention to the stars, his tone inviting. “Westen has a number of stevedores on the payroll, I want to minimise casualties and select the kill-zone.”

“Is that so?”  Face sounds like he’s drifting off, attention wandering.  Hannibal’s seen any number of officers tear Face a new one because of that misconception and knows better.  He scoots close, peering over Face's shoulder to see what he’s reading, pressed shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh, a warm line of heat down the side of his body.  Typically, it’s a photo of a female journalist that has caught Face’s attention.  

Amy Allen is a junior reporter for the Seattle Tribune, scraping the bottom barrel of general coverage.

“No casualties except Donovan Westen?” Face repeats thoughtfully.

Hannibal feels a rush of excitement low in his belly; they’re good at this, hammering out plans and counter-actions in the dirt. Face turns, sharing breath, eyelashes impossibly long, and for a moment Hannibal thinks it would be easy to reach out, to drape an arm over the kid’s shoulders; learn the texture of his skin, the softness of his lips.   Hannibal exhales. Face rises to his feet hastily.  He drops a bottle of half used antibiotics into Hannibal’s lap, his expression suddenly young.  “For the leg,” he says, awkwardly.

Hannibal turns the label around, studies the name on the prescription label with a smirk.  He calls out before Face can disappear inside. “Come this time tomorrow, I’m going to need you to trust me.”   _When the twenty-four hours are up I'm going to need you to stay_ , Hannibal won’t say.  Face tilts his head, considering.  Softly, Hannibal presses.  “Can you do that, _trust_ me?”

Face shrugs, his answer cryptic.  “Interchangeable.”

***

Templeton Peck arrives at the docks in the pre-dawn hours, dressed in his boots, Asparsia’s army pants, B.A.’s Henley, and Hannibal’s leather jacket.  He hasn’t slept since being drugged. Beside him, B.A. shadows his movements.

The unloading dock lies a half mile up the road, a burnt warehouse and pier sits to the west of their position, standing in the no-man’s-land between destinations.  Silently, he watches Hannibal and Murdock drive away, knowing they have a stop to make before hitting Pike Market. Face scrubs a hand through his hair.  He can smell Hannibal on his jacket, the man’s scent mixed with cigar smoke, bound by worn leather. Deliberately, Face breathes in, and realises the scent is _known_.  He’s good at reading people, Face also knows there’s as much to learn from his own responses, unconscious and otherwise.  

The four of them spent the night scouring over internet photographs and using the house’s computer software, nursing beer and eating chips. The team pressed at the borders of Face’s personal space until he stopped tensing when they neared. Murdock would occasionally drag something in and drop it at Face’s table, like a puppy with a slipper, hoping for a reward. His dog tags, a Polaroid of the unit taken in Jordan, faded with exposure; little mementos the captain acquired over a near decade.  Curious, Face wonders why Murdock is the keeper of the team’s mangled history.  

He glances at B.A. from the corner of his eye.  By silent accord the two men break into a trot, jogging west toward the burnt ruins.

The warehouse smells of sulphur, fine particles of ash stir in the wake of their passing.  Face walks a tight circle, halting under a ceiling hook. The links of the chain are blackened with fire, hanging loose and isolated.  He touches his fingertips to the chain, sets the links swinging, the rough grind of metal like a distant scream.

“Faceman?”

Face turns, devoid of emotion, and nods.  He didn’t find religion when bounced from orphanage to state homes to halfway houses to prison, and he doesn’t take comfort in false deities now.  His memories are drifting in, out of order, lacking context, but he remembers Donovan Westen and the events of the night. 

Like Hannibal, Face really _isn’t_ a forgiving man.

***

 **SEATTLE TRIBUNE:**

Amy Allen receives a package at nine-thirty in the morning.  She’s been covering winter fashion in the Tribune for a week, and half assumes the envelope is a studio shoot of impossibly handsome men, looking stern and artfully tousled by the wind.  She’s not expecting a newspaper clipping of a half-sunken vessel in the port of Los Angeles.  

Amy remembers _Die Vergeltung._

At the time, the company’s media representative explained the ships bulkhead had buckled unexpectedly, disgorging the cargo across the L.A. docks.  The majority of her profession knew Hamburg Westen was synonymous with illegal trade, and Amy could smell a CIA cover up when confronted by one.

The rest of the information in the packet relates to Hamburg Westen’s affiliate branches, located in Seattle and New York; a photo-spread of Donovan Westen, talking to another man by a cafe, and a list of missing persons that have vanished after dealing with the black market empire.  

Circumstantial.  None of it’s incriminating enough to publish; it’s a mere carrot-stick for a hungry reporter.

The last page, however, documents the misplacement of cargo boxes, listed when disembarked by an arriving ship, and ‘vanished’ before they exited the port.  A corresponding sheet provides the manifest, listing the materials the cargo boxes contained before disappearing.

1000 boxes of generic plastic dolls – 4/2/2009 – Arrived by _The Hellot_ , H/W Shipping

High end silk – 5/3/2009 – Arrived by _Die Vergeltung_ , H/W Shipping

Diazodinitrophenol – 7/8/2009 – Arrived by _Winter Wind_ , H/W Shipping

Acteone peroxide – 2/1/ 2010 – Arrived by _Die Vergeltung,_ H/W Shipping

Stevedores have been stealing from cargo ships since the trade began, as common as a box ‘falling’ from the rear of a truck; but her eye is drawn toward the list of missing materials, the sheer _volume_ of taken items.  Uncertain, she taps her pen against the desk and places a call.  “Bert, I need to speak with the newspaper’s legal representative.”

An hour later, the meeting has extended to Amy, Bert Harold, Jarod Compbell Attorney-at-Law, and Julia Roy, Editor-in-Chief.

“High-end explosives,” Compbell says flatly.   “At least three of those items are key elements to a nasty surprise.  And if they’re disappearing in bulk…”

Amy shakes her head.  “It doesn’t seem to fit Hamburg Westen’s MO.”

“It doesn’t,” Julia confirms.  “Since 9/11 they’ve dallied in human trafficking and china white.  Explosives, gun-running, traditionally that’s been the arena for their Austral-Asian market.”

“Why the switch-up?”

Compbell taps the photograph of Westen and his unknown accomplice. “Who’s the coffee buddy?” 

“Pedro Cesarn, a rumoured gun-runner for a bi-partisan unit out of South America,” Bert supplies briskly.  “He’s on the terrorist watch list.”

“Are we sure it’s not a fake?” Amy asks.  “This material comes without source. Generally speaking, people want _something_ in return.”

Silence greets the question.

Julia leans back in her seat.  “There’s nothing to go on here.  If we publish, Hamburg Westen cries defamation.  Give the information to the police as a possible terrorist threat, and if a story happens to explode, they repay the favour by giving us first dibs on the exclusive.”

“Not the police,” Compbell corrects.  “It has to be the FBI.  They can hold potential terrorists without charge, indefinitely.”

By quarter to one that same afternoon, Donovan Westen receives his first frantic phone call.  Craig Fergus, chief foreman on the eastern dock, warns him to steer clear of the port, the FBI are systemically arresting his workers.

At three, his phone rings again.  

“Don, it’s Jessop Grim from Pike market, your man Hannibal Smith just walked past my booth.”

Westen’s parked a mile from the docks.  He’s weighing the options between making a run for it, or confronting the FBI to see what charges are being made against his company.  The colonel’s name is a cold dose of water splashed directly into his face. “Was Smith alone?”

“No, there was an odd fellow with him, had a bullet hole in the crown of his hat,” Jessop pauses, his tone confidential.  “He told me to give you his phone number, Don.”

Westen breathes out, watching the seagulls pinwheel in the sky.  Most of his boys are in federal custody, at least he has an inkling as to who’s responsible for the trumped charge.   Drugs and women, yes, but Jorge Hamburg isn’t stupid enough to pirate explosives onto American soil, firecrackers are as incendiary as it gets.  The anger cuts through his indecision, biting hard on the inside of his cheek until he draws blood.  He can scarcely believe Smith would fuck with his company so blatantly.  

“Grab Tommy and Chris, make your way to the western storage facility, and give me Hannibal Smith’s number.”  

Peck’s been in military custody for a fortnight; Baracus never bothered to show. Two men from the A-team’s better than none, and Donovan wants to take his time.

***

For the first six hours of their morning there’s little activity on the docks.  B.A. and Face pass the time by playing a friendly game of ‘remember when’?  B.A. jabbing his finger into bruised memories until Face wants to stab him in the eye with a pen.  

By early afternoon the docks are crawling with federal police and the two men hunker down, watching wide-eyed as personnel and workers are arrested indiscriminately; the FBI’s reaction to a terrorist threat brutally swift.

By seven, the wharf’s a ghost town.  

The Pacific Ocean turns gunmetal grey in the twilight hours, night dropping like a feathered cloak.  Donovan Westen arrives, accompanied by three men; they stand in a clump, talking animatedly for ten minutes.  Eventually one man drifts to the rear of the car and pulls out an oblong case, before scrambling up a dirt embankment.  

Westen and his remaining men vanish inside the burnt ruins.

He’s oddly nervous, Face realises.  When they began to sketch the plan together he assumed he’d have Hannibal’s position, paraded bait, thought he’d have the opportunity to look Westen in the eye.  He wasn’t expecting Hannibal to balk, flat out refusing to place him within fifty feet of Westen or his henchmen.   Face would have been comfortable in the warehouse, the only concern his own sense of welfare and meting out what justice he could. The enforced distance pushes him into a sniper’s role, where protecting Hannibal and Murdock becomes his primary focus. They trust him to cover their backs; not to break position and go after Westen by himself.  He’s caught neat as a fly in a Venus trap because Face _knows_ what Westen’s capable of, and he can’t risk it happening to Murdock.  Not after everything he’s read in the captain’s file.

He’s been thinking since the early morning hours that Hannibal is scarily proficient, not so much a poker player but a master at chess.  He knows all the positions, manoeuvring Face from bloody revenge to calculated distance.  If he fucks up, it’ll be the two men on the ground that pay the price, and Face isn’t as ready to gamble with their lives as he is his own.

Soundless, B.A. taps him on the shoulder.  

Face pivots, keeping low as he follows the other man.  The gradient on the embankment is steep, the soil loose, moving underfoot, they scramble up on all fours, rolling over the top.  Face scans left to right, eyes narrowed as he searches for a perfect yowie bolt.  He motions toward a butte of earth, knotted, perfectly aligned with the warehouse window.  

B.A. pulls his hoodie low, slithers forward.  Bosco finds the fourth member of Westen’s party exactly where Face indicated: lying prone on the ground, rifle primed, his eye glued to the sight.  B.A. grabs him by the ankles and yanks violently, dragging him from the rifle in an explosive move.  The man yelps, flailing onto his back.  Face plants his boot into the guy’s temple, a swift kick that silences any further outbursts.  B.A. drops, sinking his knee into the diaphragm, one hand smacking over the sniper’s mouth, pinching the nostrils shut.

The silence stretches.  

Tense, Face watches the warehouse for movement.  B.A. releases the sniper, checking his airway to ensure it’s clear, and rolls him, using the man’s belt as a haphazard restraint.  

Face slides into the shooter’s position.

***

Murdock eyes the warehouse suspiciously, his baseball cap pulled low.  “I’ve a crazy sense of déjà vu, boss.  You and I, a desolate warehouse, and Face with a sniper rifle aimed at our heads.”

Hannibal snorts.  “Would you prefer to be _inside_ the warehouse?”

“Not feeling the love in there, either.”  Murdock squints at him, breaking into a grin.  “Shall we dance?  I’m feeling the jazz tempo, making my feet twitch.”

Hannibal nods, a half smile tilting his mouth. Face coveted this position, to run off half-cocked, throw it down with Westen; Hannibal read the fire in his eyes as easily as an open page, vengeance guiding his motives.  

There was no guarantee that if Face got revenge he would hang around afterward though.  

Hannibal’s leashing him to a different stroke, integrating him into the dynamic of a team.  By risking himself and Murdock he makes it about _them_ rather than Face.  He’s spinning a subtle web, sticky filaments of loyalty stretching from one intangible point to another.  Face won’t leave if he feels indebted, he has his own broken code to abide and Hannibal’s not above fighting dirty when needed.  

More instinctively, he wants Westen for himself.  

He won’t risk Face, not after almost losing him.  Sanctioned combat was different, but for Face to survive everything he’d experienced in war only to die at _Westen’s_ hands makes Hannibal blind with rage.  He needs Donovan dead, to see the visceral evidence before him, retribution for every mark and bruise he discovered on Face’s body.  He’d tear the man’s heart out if he could.

Murdock looks at him steadily, rocking on his heels.

“Face won’t let anything happen to you,” Hannibal says, certain.

Murdock’s smile turns crooked.  “I know it.”

Hannibal watches closely, his voice dry.  “And this is the last time you act as bait.”

“But I’m the tastiest lollypop on the team.  What we need is a mission with air support, something where I can blow those fuckers off with a thunderbolt from heaven.”

“We’ll work on it.”  Hannibal checks his automatic, pats the younger man on the shoulder, fingers tightening.  “Keep your head down, captain.”

Murdock salutes sloppily.  Hannibal watches as he jogs around the warehouse, searching for an alternate entrance, and doesn’t move until the man is out of sight.   He waits two beats then pulls his gloves on.   Hannibal walks through the front door as if entering a parade ground, shoulders back, his stride measured.

***

Westen’s strategically positioned, ankles crossed, back propped against a pillar, the space directly before him open to the window.  His own self is partially obscured. Excited, he watches Colonel Smith approach, his smile a thin razor blade. 

A portable lamp floods the ceiling hook under a sickly yellow light.  If he searches the ground, Westen will find evidence of Peck’s blood, splattered randomly. 

“You wanted to parley, Don?”

“Wanted to meet you in person.  It was gutsy, getting the FBI to do your dirty work.”

“Just clearing the playing field; I understand five of you went after my lieutenant, that’s not very seemly, or fair.”

“Yessss,” Westen drawls, head tilted, his eyes avarice bright.  “Jorge Hamburg had an issue of contention.”

“Your boat wasn’t insured?” Hannibal says bitterly.  He shifts his feet, eyes drifting upward, focusing on the ceiling hook and attached chain.  His nostrils flare.  “To be honest, Face didn’t sink it; you can hold Pike accountable for that.”

“When we agreed to let you on our ship, we weren’t expecting port authorities, the CIA _and_ military intelligence to be watching our business practices quite so closely.”  Westen lets his smile grow.  “I know you didn’t come alone.”

Hannibal refocuses.  

Westen listens to the thump and tumble, the telltale sounds of a struggle near the side entrance.  He doesn’t have an army of stevedores at his back, but he still outnumbers Hannibal four to two. The colonel reacts, hands reaching for a hidden weapon, and Jessop steps out of the shadows, swinging a crowbar like a batter at the mound.  It catches Hannibal on the edge of his thigh, the reaction instantaneous.  His leg buckles, the sound the colonel makes inarticulate, hurt beyond reason.  The colour in his face drains to corpse white.  

Westen feels his heart rate increase, eyes widening.  

Jessop kicks the weapon clear from Hannibal’s vicinity and looks at Donovan, his eyebrow quirked.  

“Go help Tommy with the nut.”  

Westen can smell blood, tongue flicking out over his lips to sample the air like a lizard.  He wants to shuffle close, poke his finger into the edge of rawness, but if Hannibal makes a move against them, Chris (Westen’s sniper), will need a clear line of sight.  Westen presses his shoulders into the pillar and lets the concrete ground him instead.  

Hannibal rolls onto his back, breath rasping, hand clamped tight around his bullet wound.  

Jessop returns, holding a struggling Murdock in a headlock, a gun pressed tight against the pilot’s skull.  Murdock’s mouth is split open, a bruise darkening his cheek; he spits, undulates, and claws like an unruly wildcat.  Beside them, Tommy limps like a man who has been kicked repeatedly in the balls, his face beetroot red.

Jessop grunts, shaking Murdock like a ragdoll.  “Fucking quit it!”

“I’m going to string your captain up, Mr. Smith.  I’m going to let you see firsthand what I did to Peck.”  Westen sounds delirious, high on the memory of pain.  “I hear Mr. Murdock’s already a few cans short of a six-pack.  How quickly do you think I can tear him apart?  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…”  Murdock goes completely still.   Jessop relaxes the headlock, tightening his grip on the weapon instead.  He keeps one arm looped around the pilot’s throat, so close there’s no space between their bodies.   Westen continues.  “I’m going to flay him alive, Mr. Smith, and when I’m done, I’ll drape that skin all over you.”

“He has a leather coat,” Murdock interjects.  “A very stylish one; I know I saw it around here somewhere.”

Westen flicks his eyes toward the interruption.  

Tommy retrieves Smith’s glock from the ground and smashes the handgrip into Hannibal’s cheek.   Hannibal curls inward, protecting his midriff, hands over his head as Tommy spits at him. Murdock yelps, sets to struggling again.  

The henchman passes the weapon to Donovan casually, and then sinks his fist into the pit of Murdock’s stomach, doubling the captain over.  Jessop wrenches him upright again.  Donovan turns the weapon over in his palm, feels the coldness of the steel and orders briskly.  “Stay outside, make sure no one approaches, no matter how loud it gets.”

Tommy nods, walks out the side entrance, stiff-legged and cock sore.

***

A kid around twenty emerges from the warehouse and walks to Hannibal’s car, plunging his knife into the tyres as if it were a mortal enemy.  

B.A. jams his hands into his pockets and jogs across the road, the pavement cracked, pitted with holes.   B.A. nods a greeting as the kid stands up, sees his eyes widen in startled recognition, and jabs the kid directly in the face with his left.  

The kid reels, nose gushing blood.  

B.A. grabs his jumper by the front of the neck, yanks until he’s off balance, half toppling forward, and drives the point of his knee into the kid’s chin.  The boy hits the ground with a wet sound and doesn’t move.

***

Westen squints at the ceiling, his voice melodic, a dream-like quality lacing through every sentence.  “Peck was beautiful on the rack, colonel, the way he struggled under my knife, the arch.  I wanted to peel the skin layer by layer, touch my hands to the inner mechanics.  The boys, though, they just wanted to fuck him.”  Hannibal spits blood, one eye swollen shut, hand clamped tight around his leg.  “Rape’s not my scene to be honest, but the men were deserving of a treat, I give them a couple hours of privacy, and boom! Sayonara to the western storage facility.”  Westen shifts away from his pillar and squats down in the ash, the glock held between his legs, his touch a caress down Hannibal’s jaw.  “I’ve been wondering, though, did that pretty boy of yours kill them before or _after_ they tore his hole wide open?”

Murdock snarls, plants his elbow into Jessop’s chest, and drives the man back by a critical step.  

Simultaneously, the window explodes, glass fragmenting inward.   The bullet passes so close to Murdock’s skull it sheers the brim from his cap.  Jessop’s head disintegrates in a spray of brain matter and gore.  Murdock drops, covering himself as Westen fires a round in shock, finger tightening on the trigger as he automatically flinches.  

The third round comes from the window again, and it tears through Westen’s rotator cuff, spinning the man like a cone top. Westen screams, high pitched, startled.  He drops the glock from nerveless fingers, and Hannibal is off the floor and on him with the ferocity of something wild.  

Last time the team was together, Hannibal needed Lynch alive to clear their names.  There’s no such consideration here.  He bounces Westen’s head off the concrete pillar, stunning him, and drops the man onto his back.  Donovan claws, nails dragging down Hannibal’s forearms, his face contorted with rage.  Hannibal drives the heel of his palm into Westen’s nose, once to break the bone, the second time to drive the shards upward into the brain.  

Westen convulses, his eyes rolling, limbs twitching like a marionette.  Hannibal sits on his heels, watching silently, intently, until the movements cease.

Murdock wipes the wetness from his face unsteadily and stands up, pacing the outer edges of the room.  He peels the remnants of his baseball cap off and studies it, the bullet hole in the crown, the brimless peak, and hollers out the window:  “Goddammit Face, I liked that hat!”

“Skull cap looks just fine,” answers B.A. from the side entry.  He studies the scene carefully, before picking his way over to Hannibal and aiding him to his feet.  

Hannibal hisses, hobbles once for balance then steps away.  He uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe the remaining gore from Murdock’s features, strangely gentle as he murmurs, “You’re lucky Face doesn’t miss.”

Murdock tosses his head, rolling under Hannibal’s touch like a horse, skittish with blood.  “He let you kill Westen,” he says softly.

“Face is thoughtful like that,” Hannibal hushes.

Murdock laughs, brittle and sharp as a bramble bush.  “And they certified _me_ insane.”

“Interchangeable, captain,” Hannibal corrects, grinning, his eyes strained around the edges.  “As needed.”  

***

Face rolls onto his back, staring up at the sky, eyes drifting until he finds the Virgo constellation.  His breath gathers in the cold air as a formless cloud.  

He believes Hannibal.  If Face is honest with himself, he’s believed the colonel since he first woke up in bed, drugged and angry, ready to lash out.  Something knotted tight inside his core relaxes in the team’s presence.   Face has images rather than concrete memories: Murdock howling at the moon; B.A.’s grin, rare as diamonds and twice as precious.  He remembers the steadfastness of Hannibal’s grip, hauling him onto a truck, unwilling to let go.  If Face stays with them, he has no doubt the memories will return twice as quick, stories to accompany the pictures in his mind, to fill the empty spaces and vacant lots.  

Something older than the team, hammered into existence by a state upbringing, insists he go it alone.  To run, hide, until the memories settle into an even keel; to seek the team out when he’s ‘normal’, whatever that is, when the vulnerabilities are locked away.  

Face tucks his hands under his armpits and sits up.  Below, he can see Hannibal, Murdock and B.A. outlined by pale lamplight, standing in the framework of the window, their mouths working silently.  There’s a blood splatter all over Murdock’s clothes.   He remembers the other man bouncing on his bed the previous night, begging Face to keep the team together, to keep him out of civilian clinics.

Face zips Hannibal’s jacket up to the chin and slings the rifle over his shoulder, muzzle pointed to the earth.  He slides down the embankment in a controlled skid, bounces to his feet as he hits the bottom and strolls casually into the night.

***

“We need to scat.  Face’s rifle had a suppressor, but the round Westen fired could have been heard.”  Hannibal glances at Murdock, content that the man is tracking.  “This place is already a point of interest for the FBI.”

“Our wheels are ruined,” B.A. rumbles.  “If we take Westen’s car, we’ll need to dump it quick and wipe it down.”

Hannibal turns as they walk outside, a frown marring his expression.  “Where’s Face?”  It’s been five minutes since the shots were fired; the kid should have emerged from position by now.  Westen’s voice slithers through his mind, insidious as poison; beside him, Murdock’s hands are jammed into his pockets.  A chill runs down his spine; unwillingly, Hannibal checks his watch.  “Twenty-four hours,” he says tightly.

Murdock’s voice is a quiet reminder.  “Face said he was punctual.” 

Hannibal stares at Murdock, pain coursing through his leg like molten fire.  He shakes his head, realises that he’s perspiring in the cold, none of which are good indications.  “He won’t leave,” Hannibal states, as if saying makes it true.  Tricks, gambits, plans within plans; none of it makes a lick of difference because in the end Hannibal trusts his lieutenant to be there.  Sixteen years, twice as long as the team itself, Face has had his back.  Hannibal has a permanent space etched beside him, moulded to his lieutenant’s temperament.   He won’t abide the emptiness.  

He meets B.A.’s eyes, seeing the urgency to move, and states firmly, “Give him a couple of minutes.”  Distantly, he knows that he’s bleeding again.  

Five minutes ticks over to ten.  A van sweeps onto the grounds, headlights dimmed; it pulls a sharp U-turn and stops beside them.  Face slides out of the driver’s seat and tosses the keys to B.A.  “I’m thinking Vancouver’s good this time of year.”

“Oh, you thing of beauty,” B.A. murmurs, and runs his hand down the side of the vehicle.  It’s in better mint than the van Face destroyed yesterday, nowhere near as good as the one Murdock pancaked in Mexico eight years ago, but given a little love...

Murdock supports Hannibal as they limp toward the vehicle.  Sotto voce, B.A warns them, “If you even _think_ about driving this one off a cliff…”

“Third time’s a charm, corporal,” Hannibal laughs, eyes bright, and pins Face with a look.  “You’re _late_.”

Peck’s arms are folded across his chest, the smile a feline twitch of his lips.  “Sorry.  I was busy committing grand theft auto.”

Hannibal grunts dismissively.  

Face glides under his other arm, supportive, an arm wraps around Hannibal’s back, fingers intertwining with Murdock as the two men wrestle him inside the vehicle.  “You’re going to be an invalid if you don’t stay off the leg,” Face warns.

“It’s so sweet when the shooter expresses concern,” Murdock quips.  He scrambles into the front, taking the shotgun seat beside B.A.   The corporal starts the engine, leaving the docks at a sedate, leisurely pace.  Hannibal watches Face, his eyes half-lidded.  He doesn’t doubt Westen’s story was half-true; the threat against Face’s person, the implied rape attempt.  Face is fluid, intangible, but there are some things he doesn’t flex on.  His mother’s murder saw to that.  

Hannibal reaches out, in clear line of sight, and curls his hand around Templeton’s wrist. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Maybe there’s a god above, but all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.It’s not the cry you hear tonight, it’s not someone who’s seen the light, It’s a cold, it’s a broken, hallelujah. ___
> 
> \- John Cale

_  
_

Colonel Decker arrives home from California twenty-four hours after Templeton Peck was snatched from Fort Lewis.  

He lives off-base, in a secluded house surrounded by trees, a sleepy harbour that his kids visit maybe twice a year if he’s lucky, and if his ex-wife Denise is feeling generous.  His face is drained of colour, reeling from the verbal abuse General Hyett had flung at him for the last three hours.  The questions fired swift as bullets, every decision he made, every ‘suggestion’ the CIA had floated, scrutinized and chewed out.  

General Hyett’s position came down to one inexcusable fact: they had in their possession a member of the A-team, and lost him before charges were laid.  Lynch’s counter-orders (written in triplicate) barely covered Decker’s ass; it left everything else swinging in a decidedly cold breeze.  

Decker steps out of his car wearily, the reprimand still ringing in his inner ear.  Corporal Menzek was in hospital, being treated for mild exposure and dental surgery.  The instant Decker opened the semi-trailer and discovered, not the A-team as he hoped, but his own corporal hog-tied in the back, is forever etched in his mind.  He feels every one of his forty-three years; like his blood pressure has skyrocketed.  His command is under review, there are rumblings he might be demoted to a lieutenant colonel in the near future, and he can’t remember the last time he slept.  

Decker enters the house and freezes.  There are stale chips and beer stacked on the table, mud has been tracked from one end of the bathroom to the other, and someone has slept in his bed, a chair perpendicular to the mattress.  Two sock puppets are strewn haphazardly over the covers.  On the fridge, someone has drawn a smiley face below a post-it note.

 _You weren’t responsible for the initial damage, but you manipulated events.  Thanks for the hospitality, H.S._

“I’m going to kill them,” Decker swears.

***

The first two days of their stay in Vancouver are spent with medical treatment; or rather Face seduces a doctor and brings her home.  Murdock would find the situation hysterical if Hannibal didn’t look quite so homicidal.  His face pinched, unhappy, as if biting down on a lemon.  

The professional attention does the job, and within a day Hannibal’s fever abates, the leg healing without further infection. Hannibal packs up and bugs out, having never learnt her name.  Face barely has time to kiss her goodbye, to thank her profusely for everything she has done, before the van rolls out of the stony driveway.  

They stop in Calgary then drop over the border, sharing hotel rooms on forgotten highways, learning the back roads of America. B.A. changes the number plates on his van half a dozen times, and the colour goes from sky blue to midnight black, a blood vein running down the side.  

It feels aimless, without direction.  The sky is pale winter blue, the weather blustery, but they’re together and Hannibal isn’t inclined to complain.  The kid buys the newspaper everyday, circling articles, a sharpie clenched between his teeth like one of Hannibal’s cigars.  The memories drift in sloppily, one at a time, as laid back as Face himself.  Sometimes violent, other times revealed by muffled laughter, the kid struggling not to show it, but grinning.  He remembers Mexico, the first time he meet B.A. and Murdock.  He remembers Morrison, Indonesia, Sosa, Iraq. 

Hannibal wants to ask if he remembers _their_ first encounter, but doesn’t push.  He’s starting to tire of not pushing.  

He catches Face watching him at odd moments, eyes at half-mast, inscrutable as a sphinx.  Obstinately, the return of Face’s memories signals the return of his poker face.  He becomes increasingly difficult to read.  It makes Hannibal twitch.  Like Westen, he wants to peel the skin back, bypass the calluses, and touch what lies beneath.  By the time they meander through Montana, Hannibal’s reached the limit on patience.  He takes two rooms at a nowhere hotel, crowds Face into one and locks the door behind them.  The lieutenant circuits the room automatically, casing exit points, closing the blinds, one light on in the bathroom, everything else muted by soft shadow.  When he’s finished, he focuses on Hannibal, eyebrow quirked, his body an insolent line. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Hannibal wants a lot of things.  

There’s only one bed in the room.  Hannibal stands casually, centred before the only exit, his hand brushing his thigh.  Face drops his eye-line to the leg, misinterpreting the gesture.  “Does it hurt?”

“It’s one of yours,” Hannibal says disjointedly.  Face tilts his head, parsing the words and Hannibal clarifies.  “Yes, it hurts.” 

The smoothness of Face’s expression vanishes, a minor crack, he straightens infinitesimally.  “Boss…”

“Do you remember how we met?”

“Not the details.” Face sweeps a hand through his hair, tongue wetting his lips.  “I remember _you_ \-- the sense of you, other memories, yes.”

“But not that one.”  Face shrugs helplessly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Hannibal parts his lips, voice dropping.  “I could tell you, if it helps.”  He peels his shirt off, lets the material drop to the ground and toes his boots off.  They’ve been on the road for twenty-four hours and Hannibal has one eye fixed on the shower stall. There’s a peppering of scars on his body, the impact of twisted metal with the fragility of human flesh.  For a career that’s spanned decades, Hannibal figures he’s done well for himself.  All of his wounds have been under the skin, broken bones followed by long stints in hospital.   

Face goes intense, his eyes sweeping over Hannibal’s body, personal as a touch.

“In the late stages of the Iraq withdrawal in ‘94, a Black Hawk helicopter went down with a newly minted lieutenant colonel inside.  Rank has its privileges, Face.  Major Davies led a retrieval unit into a bombed out town and came under heavy resistance, he was dead in the first exchange of weapons fire.  The chalk leader took command and seven hours later I was choppered out of the desert.”  Hannibal smiles, his expression sardonic.  “Twelve soldiers risked their lives to get a cluster officer out of a crater hole, and they did it outnumbered fifteen to one, with no accurate intel to speak of, on the run, with dwindling bullets.   I spent the next two months healing broken bones in Germany.” 

Face blinks, thrown off balance.  

It’s not the story he was expecting, Hannibal supposes.   “The details are fuzzy, but I remember you were a teenager, barely nineteen.  You kept me alive and led the team every step of the way.  I came looking for you the minute I lost the cane.  By then your unit was under Captain Quarren, and those twelve men had fallen to three.  You didn’t have a good impression of high ranking officers by that stage.”  Bitterly, Hannibal thinks Morrison and Lynch haven’t improved matters since. “So tell me, if you couldn’t remember the details, what ‘sense’ did you have of _me_?”

“Guarded,” Face answers automatically.  

Don’t ask don’t tell was the code Hannibal lived by.  His sexual exploits were staggered (he opted for his hand frequently), but on the rare occasions his own company wasn’t enough, he knew the benefits of discretion.  Hannibal knows exactly what he wants, how to achieve it, to draw out pleasure until it bleeds into near pain.  Patiently, he chooses his moments.  If his past lovers shared physical characteristics with Face, then it was knowledge only Hannibal was privy to.  Guarded was what the military bred him to be.  Face’s eyes are wide in the dark, he looks like he did when drugged, pupils a solar eclipse of black.  In Iraq, broken and bleeding inside, Hannibal thought the kid was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  Hannibal’s kept him close for sixteen years; never once touched him as he desired.  

“I’m not feeling particularly restrained anymore.”

Face’s eyes rove over Hannibal’s body.  Invited, he closes the distance between them without hesitation.  His hand is warm, solid, against Hannibal’s chest.   The pants are loosened before Hannibal registers it.  Gracefully, Face sinks to his knees.  He’s achingly, blindingly, gorgeous.  Hannibal hisses, head lowered.  

Face ignores his cock.  His hands frame the bullet wound on Hannibal’s thigh.  It’s the first time he’s seen the wound up close, Hannibal realises.  The touch feels like an apology, smoothing over a phantom ache, but it doesn’t progress further, and the atmosphere remains weirdly charged.  

A flush creeps down Face’s neck.  “I haven’t--” Fascinated, Hannibal watches him.  “Women--” Face tries inelegantly.

With his blood rushing south, Hannibal feels he can be forgiven for not puzzling out the words in a timely fashion.  In fact, it takes him embarrassingly long; it wasn’t a scenario he previously envisioned.  He cups a hand under Face’s jaw, tilts the head upward until he makes eye contact.  There’s a deep primal surge; reading the answer to a question Hannibal feared to ask.  He waits until Face is on his feet before he leans close, his mouth curling into a smile. “Never with men?”

Face turns his head, their cheeks almost brushing, and says almost defensively.  “I _like_ women.”

“No doubt.” 

But liking was a long way from _staying_ , and Hannibal, who’s watched the frequency of Face’s hook-ups, assumed his sexuality had been of the ‘yes please’ variety.  The admission makes him change his approach, shifts the assault from a friendly skirmish to a strategic battleground.  He wants to burn an impression, to raze the memory of previous lovers to the ground.  If he only has one chance, Hannibal won’t waste it on timidity.  He lets his tone go teasing, this side of a challenge.  “You don’t strike me as a missionary man.”

Face sways, eyes narrowed.  “I said ‘not men’.  Don’t mistake it for inexperience.”

“Anal play?” Hannibal rasps.

The blush starts to deepen, Face blinks.  “With Sosa.”

“Rough?”

“Would you like a copy of my CV?” Face asks tartly.

Hannibal laughs, kisses him slow, languid as misdirection. Face’s hesitancy evaporates.  He surges forward, leather against Hannibal’s torso, fingers lined against his jaw, angling Hannibal into the kiss.  The warmth in his belly spreads, allowing Face to lead as he starts to harden under the younger man’s touch.  Whatever else, Face commits to his chosen course of action, and Hannibal thoroughly approves.  

Reluctantly, he breaks them apart and searches his duffel bag, slipping the lube into Face’s hand.  “Get yourself ready for me.” Face withdraws, something mercurial flashing in his eye.  Hannibal responds instinctively, voice husky with command.  “Do as I say.”  

Face’s defiance is the awkwardness of exposure, of being ordered to open himself up - _without_ a partner’s participation; the kid has a showman’s flair in everything bar this it seems, and Hannibal locks the information away for further examination.  It may have been kinder to slip in close and help, glide his fingers through slickness and spread Face open to his hand, but Hannibal wants visual proof; to watch that hesitant step out of a comfort zone, knowing Face is doing it because Hannibal asked, and because Face _wants_ to.  

Face strips, folding his clothes neatly, and opens the bottle with a click.  He kneels on the bed, thighs spread, his hand working from behind; he’s efficient, doesn’t dally or scrimmage on the lube.  Hannibal memorises each movement, every flex of muscle. He strips the last of his own clothing and orders, “Curl your hands around the bedpost.”

Face stretches out, mouth tilting into a smirk.   He’s half hard with interest, his tone lofty.  “Sixteen years is a long time to wonder about someone’s performance.  You may not live up to my expectation.”

Hannibal’s teeth show - a lion’s threat to eat the prey alive, or play with it until the heart gives out.    He crawls on top, nipping softly.  The tips of his fingers splay out across Face’s pulse point, reassuringly strong.  The kid’s a skilled kisser, playful, with just enough heat to leave Hannibal wanton, panting with an illicit promise.  They stay like that for long moments until Face arches, demanding, his fingers flexing on the bedpost.  Hannibal navigates by touch, letting his hand glide over the ribcage; pressing a kiss into the jut of hipbone.  Face parts his legs, lacking patience, and Hannibal smiles into the skin, breathing in deeply.  

Hannibal’s eye to eye with the raised scar tissue; his other hand cups Face’s scrotum, fingers pressing against the perineum. Face is hard, the skin flushed rosy-red, leaking from the tip. Hannibal raises his head to make eye contact and pushes two fingers in, brutally swift.   Face’s thighs flutter, a quick butterfly motion, before he relaxes into the invasion.   

Experienced; Hannibal agrees.  

He keeps his hand inverted, two fingers deep in Face’s body and the heel of his palm pressed against his balls, just shy of discomfit.  Face shudders, pries his fingers loose from the bedpost one at a time then reaffirms his grip.  Hannibal lowers his head, suckles the tip of his cock as a reward.   Above him, the younger man curses, squirming on his hand.  The taste is less distilled here: warm male, heavy on his tongue.  Hannibal swallows to the base, scissors his fingers.  He could happily stay; instead he pulls off, teeth scraping the vein, and feels the muscles in Face’s thigh bunch.  Hannibal pushes the third finger in when Face is catching his breath, then stretches all three to their widest point.  Above him, the kid goes preternaturally still.  

Hannibal props his chin on Face’s hip, watches, heavy-lidded.  Sweat has broken out across Face’s torso; his eyes are shocky wide, as if he’s just inferred Hannibal’s intent.  Patiently, Hannibal waits.  Face is tactile, seeking physical affection, but he doesn’t trespass where he’s not invited and he expects the same courtesy in return.  Last time someone threatened otherwise, Face reacted with extreme prejudice.  Hannibal’s mother raised him with better manners than that.  He waits, examining every flicker of emotion.  Face swallows convulsively. Eventually, he relaxes his head onto the pillow.  

Warmly, Hannibal kisses his hip.  

He uses the remaining lube, tucks the three fingers close together and pushes in the fourth. Hannibal locates the prostate ruthlessly, plays it until Face falls apart on his fingers; swift passes mixed with hard pressure, rubbing, easing off; a bite to the inner thigh; a kiss to the edge of a knee.  Four fingers deep with no mercy; not until Face goes incoherent.  His cock, wet from Hannibal’s spit, becomes a tight line pressed to his stomach.  Smith doesn’t touch it; instead he fastens his mouth around Face’s balls and sucks.  

Above him, Face breaks; he drops his hands from the bedpost, curling them tight around his own flesh, and tugs twice before he comes.  

 Face spasms, muscles clenching; wetness splashes across the planes of his stomach.  His entire body flushes with warmth before he collapses, endorphins rushing through his system.  Spent, his muscles relax automatically.  Relentless, Hannibal folds his thumb in and pushes with his entire hand.

The sound Templeton makes is lost, broken open, his body gives in between the space of a heartbeat.  Inexorably, Hannibal sinks inside; turns his wrist against the incredible warmth.  He keeps his forearm planted, doesn’t jostle as he raises his upper body.  With his other hand, he smudges Face’s semen over the scars Westen left behind, bends his head to lick the mess clean. Templeton’s cock is quiescent between his legs.  He quivers once under Hannibal’s tongue, like a minor earthquake.  

Hannibal’s hard, he feels like he’s been hard for sixteen years, ever since he met Face.  He’s a patient man, but all of his fortitude is crumbling like dusty walls.  His voice turns husky with desire, with warning.  “Can you feel that?” And clenches his fist. Face’s breath hitches in response; over-sensitised and stretched wide open.  Hannibal turns his head, rubs his cheek against a tanned thigh.  Face’s cock is small now; hungrily, Hannibal swallows him.  

Face shudders, the words punched from him.  “Please, I can’t--   _Sir_.” 

Infinitely slow, Hannibal uncurls his fist and withdraws his hand, listening to the tone rather than the denial.  The muscles in his throat clamp on the sensitive flesh in his mouth, his tongue flattens torturously.  It’s messy, the ache in his jaw the type of pain Hannibal revels in, spit and semen a natural slick.   He keeps two fingers buried deep inside Face, holding him open and sucks until the flesh begins to unfurl, until Face thrashes, a charlatan stripped to the bone. When Hannibal is light-headed, dizzy with want, he positions his shoulders under Face’s legs and surges upward.  

Templeton grunts, body folded almost double; Hannibal slides into him, the weight of gravity doing all the hard work.  He doesn’t stop until he’s balls deep, until the stretched muscles settle around his width like a second glove. Unlike Face, he’s never been in a rush.  Hannibal fucks him slow, deliberately, each drive pushing Face down, compressing his lungs, making it that much harder to breathe.  Hannibal holds both of his wrists to the mattress, a rebuke for releasing his grip on the bedpost earlier.  

Face’s cock, reawakened and angry red, bobs without friction.  He gulps air between thrusts, his eyes squeezed shut.  

Hannibal snaps his hips down, presses, presses, until Face feels he’s drowning, until the air in his lungs is as thin as a halo jump.  His cock swells at the lack of oxygen, drips like a leaky faucet, sticky droplets on his chin and the edges of his mouth. Panicked, his eyes fly open and fix on Hannibal.  

“Atta boy,” Hannibal murmurs, his eye’s ocean deep, and eases the pressure off his lungs as reward.  Face breathes, shaky, mouth slack, and focuses on Hannibal’s rhythm, watches the push, withdrawal, until he can anticipate him.  Hannibal’s eyes glint with possessive humour, he leans forward, compressing, until he can kiss Peck on the side of the mouth.  

Obediently, Face keeps his eyes open.  

Hannibal’s lips are gentle, the kiss so sweetly at odds with the duality of the sensation.  Face can’t breathe, but he sucks on Hannibal’s air, seals his mouth tight to the colonel’s.   Hannibal breaks away, tightens his hold on Face’s wrists.  “I’m going to make you come like this,” Hannibal whispers, “Next time, keep your hands on the bedpost.”

Face wants to protest.  He wants Hannibal’s mouth on his cock, or his hands, or even the friction of a mattress at this stage, but he’s curled into a ball with his ass in the air and he’s flexible, but he’s not a damn gymnast.  If this lasts much longer, Face won’t be able to move tomorrow.   Deliberately, he does the only thing he can do, and clenches.  It makes the cock in his ass feel huge, twice as large as the dildo Sosa used.  Hannibal stutters, his breath punching out in a gasp, rhythm broken.  The victory is minor but its Face’s and if he can bring Hannibal off that much faster, the better.  He blinks sweat from his eyes, starts to regain his confidence.  Hannibal watches him, a grin curling the edges of his mouth, then strokes in smooth as whiskey. Face’s eyes roll back, his balls, emptied once, spasm painfully. Hannibal changes his grip, moving Templeton’s hands above his head, securing them one-handed, and returns to his previous tempo, unfaltering.  

Panting, Face tightens again, pushes back with what leverage he has, listens to Hannibal’s drawn out groan.  They’re wrestling toward a middle ground, arguing all the way.  Hannibal whispers.  “You’re going to do what I say, you can’t help yourself.”  With his newly freed hand, Hannibal draws a line down his perineum, a pointed reminder of where his fist has been, and Face whines, low in the back of his throat.  He touches Face at the entry point, where his cock breaches the younger man, and pushes two fingers back in, alongside his own length.  Face bucks ineffectively.  

Hannibal is breaking apart under the added stimulus, knuckles bumping his own flesh.  He drops all of his weight on Face, curling him tight, cutting off the entirety of his air, and stabs his finger against the man’s prostate.  “Come on.”  Low as a command, hitting the hindbrain and Face does; his cock, neglected, dangling toward his torso, spurts ropey fluid.  Triumphant, Hannibal comes, his vision going white, chasing him over the edge.

They collapse sideways in a sweaty tangle of limbs.  The kid’s shaking, not even conscious of it, aftershocks running through his body.  Gently, Hannibal folds him close.  The sex wasn’t what he expected, more possessive, more vulnerable than Hannibal would have assumed.  He makes a cocoon of the blankets, lets the warmth build between them until Face stops trembling. The kid sighs, rearranging his limbs, and Hannibal kisses him peacefully.  Everything’s quiet now, a languid exploration.  “Shower,” he murmurs eventually.  “You’ll thank me for it later.”

Hannibal stands, hauling the other man up.  He lets the water run hot, centres them both under the showerhead, and soaps them clean.  Face, somnolent and half asleep, melts against him.

***

Habitually, Hannibal awakes at first light.  He’s only half under the covers, the sheet strewn across one leg and pooling at his groin.  Face is sprawled on his stomach; jeans unbuttoned, loose on his hips, everything else naked and easy to reach.  He slides forward to kiss Hannibal hello, voice mock accusing.  “We’re staying inside for the day.”

Hannibal laughs, a low rumble in his chest.  “Not up to moving?”

“Don’t laugh until the shoe’s on the other foot, _boss_ , you might not be so jovial when we switch up.”

Hannibal smiles; content at Face’s assumption that it wasn’t a one-off.  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”  Face must have left at some stage, he seems overdressed in his faded jeans, the morning newspaper scattered across the bed, the pages crackling as they move.  He threads a hand through Face’s hair, tugs on an errant curl.  “You looking for a job?  Short-order cook?”

“Kind of, just not in the employment section.”  He’s reading the headlines again, something about a kidnapping in South America.  The smile Face bestows on him is without artifice; he crawls up Hannibal’s body and sprawls, heavy as a limpet.  “You don’t seem to be adapting to civilian life very well.” Face observes.

Hannibal tried to do what was best for the team.  They weren’t military; rationally, he couldn’t expect his boys to follow him forever.  Hannibal gave the order to scatter because the band-aid effect applied: if he did it fast, he might not feel the sting. Hannibal’s been feeling murderous since Russell Morrison betrayed them.  Here, in this room, with this unlikely man, all of his sharp edges are covered, muted by warmth.

“You were in the military the longest, maybe we ought to ease you into civilian life,” Face teases.  “It would be a shame to waste all those hard-earned military skills.”

Hannibal turns his head, lips parted and breathes; breathes for the first time in a year.  “I’m listening.”

***

Amy quits her position at the Seattle Tribune two months after handing dodgy information to the FBI; she doesn’t sleep well at night.  No reprimands were made, no blame assigned, but the truth is she involved the federal police, and twelve hours later Donovan Westen was dead.  It feels uncomfortably like she was an accomplice.  The decision isn’t difficult; Julia has her on the fashion spread, the winter line giving way to summer, and Amy didn’t become a journalist to coo over Angelina Jolie’s dress sense.  She packs her bags and heads to L.A., wanting to feel the sun on her skin; move away from the pervasive rain.  She’s on her fourth job interview with a leading newspaper when the editor is called away unexpectedly.  Disgruntled, Amy drains the last of her coffee and sorts through her folder of work, watching the passing traffic without thinking.  There’s a van parked on the opposite side of the street; beside it, a man in cargo pants and a brown leather jacket buskers, singing _Hotel California_ in a surprising tenor.

A photograph is dropped on the table: the Queen of England in a lip lock with David Beckham, her leg hitched around his waist. Like the fake photograph of Westen and Pedro Cesarn, it’s startlingly realistic.  Shadows, lines, angles, the placement of limbs all attest to its authenticity.  

Furious, Amy looks up.  

The man standing over her table is six foot four if an inch, his hair silver-fox grey.  He looks well lived in, comfortable in his skin, laugh lines and calluses in equal measure.  The sheer presence he emanates makes her skin prickle.   Amy’s spent a lot of time wondering who orchestrated Westen’s death; she never once thought he’d have the moxie to reveal himself.

Amy gave bogus information to the FBI, and because of it Donovan’s protection was taken from him.   She knows Westen wasn’t a decent man: human trafficking, drugs on one side of the Pacific; gunrunning, explosives on the other, but she feels ill-used. Amy pushes the photograph across the table, twin spots of colour high on her cheek. His eyes are fathomless blue, timeless as the sky; he takes a seat opposite as if invited and holds out his hand.  “I’m John Smith.”

She ignores it.  “Am I supposed to take that name seriously?”

“ _Colonel_ John Smith if you prefer, or Hannibal.”

Amy taps the photograph.  “You used me.”  In the back of her mind there’s an alarm bell ringing, the name sounds vaguely familiar.

“Yes,” he says, unrepentant.  “You need gainful employment, and I need something to go my way.  My boys and I were a clandestine unit, the best, half of our missions on the Q.T.  When a job went foul we were found guilty in a closed military hearing.  We proved our innocence, but dragged the CIA’s name through the mud and they covered it up.  I need you to blow the story wide open.”

Amy stares at him, flabbergasted.  “If you open the story wide, it won’t be just the Military Police and Intelligence hunting you.  It’ll be every law enforcement agency in America.”

“ _We were innocent_.  It needs to be known.  We can handle the heat, Ms. Allen.  Reputations speak.”

Across the road an African-American steps out of the van, his arms corded with muscle.  He leans against the side of the vehicle, starts speaking to the busker, his tone irate.

“And you think the best way to introduce yourself is to involve me in a sting? I lost my credibility because of that!  The Tribune had me sitting on fashion for the next sixty years of my life!” Amy stands abruptly, ready to walk away.

“I’m sorry.  We’re a little gun-shy after Baghdad, we’ll be better behaved next time,” Hannibal stands as well, his hand curling around her bicep, stopping her progress. 

Hannibal’s like a poster from the photo shoots that landed on her desk this winter: austere, strangely magnetic.  Amy screws the palm of her hand into her eye, counts to five.   “Why should I believe anything you have to say?”

Hannibal grins, certain of himself.  “Because you want to.”

A second man exits the van.  Amy feels her mouth dry out.  He’s casual grace, lean and measured, turning gazes on the street without seemingly noticing.  Like Hannibal, there’s the element of a predator hidden in his motion, obscured beneath civilian clothing and checked by Gucci shoes.  He veers toward the busker, taking up station beside him, and drops a brand new baseball cap on the ground.  The two men jostle, laughter heard easily; they break into song without a care for who’s watching.   _99 Red Balloons_ , in the original German, carries clearly to her ears.

She can feel Hannibal’s stare, winter cold, and when she turns to face him the casual friendliness is gone.  “Our fraudster.”

“The FBI said those forgeries were of a criminal class, it took them over a day to determine they were fake.  To release innocent men held on false charge.  White collar crime your new business… _colonel_?”  Across the street, someone drops a ten dollar note into the baseball cap.

“Mercenaries,” Hannibal corrects mildly.  “I promise we’ll be particular about our business standards from here on.”

Amy opens her mouth, closes it; realises that she has no idea what to say to such an admission.  But it’s a _story_ , her story if she wants it, and it’ll open any door in the media industry.  Hannibal holds out his hand again.  “We’ll give you a feature, Ms. Allen. The flip side of the coin, all you have to do is print it.”

She takes his hand and shakes once, ready to gamble.


End file.
